


Treading Water

by sabaceanbabe



Series: in which Finnick and Annie (eventually) get their happy ending [1]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: 75th Hunger Games, Catching Fire, F/M, Gen, M/M, Odesta, Quarter Quell, Third Quarter Quell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-08
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2017-10-29 04:58:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 36
Words: 199,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabaceanbabe/pseuds/sabaceanbabe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <br/>
    <i>They don't tell you when you go into the arena that the lucky ones are those who die.</i>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>    <a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v630/SabaceanBabe/?action=view&current=TreadingWaterbannerbyRoNordmann_zps6027622b.jpg"></a><br/><img/><br/></p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pockets Full of Stones

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for implied self-harm, purposeful self-harm, suicide, past and present situations of dubious consent, forced drug use, intentional drug use, underage drinking, references to past rape, and something that could maybe be considered domestic violence (between a main character and a minor character). See notes for individual chapters, regarding whether or not that chapter carries a warning.
> 
> The fabulous banner is by Ro Nordmann.

** PART ONE – DISTRICT FOUR **

**Chapter One – Pockets Full of Stones**

Nearly dead center of the smoky, noisy tavern, Finnick Odair sits at the table with his father and uncles. It had been a frustrating day at sea and they’d gotten back into port late. Nothing was biting and it’s been that way for weeks. What little was brought in by the Odairs and by the others crowding the tavern has already been packed in ice and shipped out to the Capitol. Finnick overhears a good deal of grumbling about that as he nurses his beer.

Still, despite the slow season, the long, hard days at sea with little to show for their efforts, Finnick is more than happy to be home. Things make sense here. He can drop the mask and be himself, at least to some extent. He sits back and lets the conversations, both the one between his father and uncles and the larger one repeated across the public room, swirl around him along with the smoke and the scents of fish and sausage and beer. Home.

“This is the worst I’ve seen it in more than twenty years,” Thomas Odair observes and more voices than just those of Finnick’s uncles chime in with their agreement. The mood in the tavern is restless when a group of Peacekeepers armed with machine guns – _That’s new_ , Finnick thinks – stops in the open doorway and surveys the crowd. Voices drop to whispers and the wave of sound ebbs across the tavern, but talk doesn’t completely cease even as a woman wearing a uniform that proclaims her the Head Peacekeeper breaks away from the rest and approaches the bar. The tavern’s owner, grizzled old Danny, an ex-fisherman retired by the sea when a shark took his leg, meets her at the corner of the bar and they hold a terse conversation before she returns to her group. Watching her walk away, Danny spits on the floor as though spitting a bad taste from his mouth.

Resuming their conversation at the table, Finnick asks, “When did they start carrying machine guns? Don’t our Peacekeepers generally carry pistols, if anything?”

Rick, Thomas’ younger brother, nods and swallows his beer, setting his glass on the table hard enough to set the amber liquid within sloshing. Finnick watches the play of light refracting through the glass. “Fucking Peacekeepers,” Rick growls. Finnick looks up at his uncle, raises an eyebrow. For as long as Finnick can remember, Peacekeepers have patrolled the town; in recent weeks, they prowl the docks in pairs and threesomes, never alone, as though worried someone might attack.

“Reminds me of the way it was before the last Quarter Quell,” Thomas tells Finnick, “just before you were born.”

Finnick spins his half-full glass between his hands and wonders how close District 4 might be to open rebellion. Judging by the snippets of talk overheard this evening alone, it may be getting close. Mention of the Quarter Quell is an unpleasant reminder that Finnick will have to return to the Capitol soon and that this year he’ll probably be required to mentor. He makes a mental note to ask Haymitch when he sees him if things in 12 are anywhere near as tense as they are here and if, as his dad says, it’s like it was twenty-five years ago. He’s not sure if it will help or hurt them in the long run, but the Capitol is certainly taking a more active interest in the day-to-day activities of the districts.

A flicker of light catches his attention and he looks up at the television that hangs over the bar. The sound is muted, but the picture shows Katniss Everdeen, victor of the last Games, all dolled up in a wedding dress, then switches to Caesar Flickerman in his studio, seated beside a man Finnick assumes must be Everdeen’s stylist. Next to the dark man in his simple black clothing, Flickerman looks like a ghost with his too-white makeup and white-sequined suit, so different from the one he wears year after year for the Hunger Games. Finnick shudders. He is not a fan of Caesar Flickerman.

The Katniss Everdeen Wedding Dress Special continues on its merry way, but without Finnick paying any more attention to it, other than when particularly jarring transitions between clips pull his gaze back toward the bar. A peal of laughter rings out on the other side of the room as a game of darts nears its end. A woman pounds her fist on the bar, shouts, “What right do they have—?” before she’s quickly hushed and hustled away from the bar to a table near the back door. A server maneuvers through the various obstacles in his path, bearing a tray filled with fish chowder to the table beside the Odairs’; Finnick’s stomach rumbles and he quiets it with a swallow of beer as his uncle Corin, his mother’s brother, signals for another pitcher.

Another abrupt lighting change from the television draws Finnick’s gaze in time to see the Seal of Panem fill the screen, replacing Flickerman’s ghostly face. “Danny!” he calls, and when the man behind the bar turns in Finnick’s general direction, he continues, “Turn the volume up!” as a woman sets a full pitcher on the table. The television screen shows President Snow standing on a stage outside the presidential mansion, wearing a dark suit, his ever-present white rose bud in the lapel. He waves a greeting with both hands to the roaring crowd surrounding him. Unlike the streets of District 4, there are only a handful of Peacekeepers apparent, and only a few of those overtly bear any kind of weapon, none of which is a machine gun. Finnick finishes his beer and reaches for the pitcher, refills his glass. He offers to refill Corin’s, but the older man declines.

Nearly everyone turns toward the television and the tavern grows quiet as Flickerman’s voice tells them of the upcoming announcement from President Snow regarding the 75th Hunger Games. Several of those old enough to remember one or both of the previous Quarter Quells wonder if this will be the “reading of the card” and there is talk of what came before, of voting on specific children to be sent into the arena and how horrible that was for the 25th Games, of the doubling of the number of tributes for the 50th, and speculation of what this next Quell might bring. Finnick feels quite a few sets of eyes watching him.

The televised image of Snow, that blood-red smile, the sibilants of his voice as he tells a brief history of the Hunger Games and in particular of the Quarter Quells, unknowingly repeating the conversation in the tavern just moments before…. Finnick can’t hide from the suddenly overwhelming scent of blood and roses. The sense memory is so strong that it doesn’t matter that there’s nothing in the room that smells like anything other than smoke and food and alcohol, the occasional whiff of the sea, carried in through the tavern doors, open in spite of the chill of the early spring evening. Finnick feels Snow’s faux friendly hands on his shoulders, shudders at the remembered touch. His fingers tighten on his glass as he tells himself it isn’t real, that Snow is hundreds of miles away, that family and friends surround him and Snow can’t touch him.

 _“And now we honor our third Quarter Quell,”_ Snow announces and steps back, gesturing toward a boy in white, too young to be reaped even if he wasn’t a citizen of the Capitol and thus exempt. The boy brings out a box of cards and Snow brushes away dust before opening it. _The dust is a nice touch_ , Finnick thinks cynically as Snow makes a show of drawing a yellowed envelope with a large “75” written on it. He opens the envelope and reads the card for the 75th Hunger Games, the third Quarter Quell, with great ceremony.

_“On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors.”_

No one moves. It seems as though no one breathes as they take in the announcement, consider what it means. The tavern is silent save for the hum of the television until the sudden, violent sound of shattering glass breaks that silence. In tandem with the crowds surrounding the President on the television screen, the crowd filling the tavern breaks out into protest and speculation, discussion and argument over what it all means. Danny turns off the televison as people begin to shout about the victors, _their_ victors, sent back to the arena, start to ask when the Capitol will stop taking from the districts?

Finnick doesn’t notice the broken shards of his beer glass, the blood that mingles with the beer dripping from the edge of the table to the floor, doesn’t notice the pain in his hand. His eyes are still on the TV, but he doesn’t see it, doesn’t hear the voices surrounding him. He is back in the arena with voracious, blood-sucking vines suffocating him, and threaded through it all is the scent of roses.

His father and uncles pull shards of glass from Finnick’s right hand and try to stem the flow of blood. Corin starts to wrap Finnick’s hand in a napkin, a temporary bandage until they can find something better, but Finnick suddenly shoves away from the table with enough force that his chair clatters to the floor.

He glances at Thomas and says one word – “Annie” – before shoving his way through the crowd to the door, not waiting to see if the others follow.

xXx

It’s getting dark outside and Finnick still isn’t home. Annie fixes herself a sandwich, knowing that if they’re running this late getting the catch settled and the boat squared away, he’ll probably eat with his father and uncles. It wouldn’t be the first time, nor is it likely to be the last.

They’ve been out since daybreak and she’s lonely, though it’s nothing like the times when he’s away in the Capitol. When he goes to the Capitol, he’s different when he comes back, more distant, colder. Sometimes he pulls out of it in a few hours, gradually catching up to his body in his return to her. Other times, when things were particularly bad in the Capitol, it takes a day or two before he is Finnick again. The real Finnick, not the shell the Capitol sees.

She switches on a floor lamp in a corner of the living room and draws the curtains, shutting out the darkness outside as well as the lights of their handful of neighbors. There are a dozen houses on Victors’ Island; Annie and Finnick live in one at the end of the little cove. People occupy six other houses along the sheltered beach, but for the most part, the victors living on the little island keep to themselves.

Turning on the television, Annie settles in on the couch to wait for Finnick. She stretches out a bit, rests her head on the arm as the opening credits for the Katniss Everdeen Wedding Dress Special scroll across the screen. A sparkling Caesar Flickerman bounds into his studio and takes his seat. There is an empty seat beside him as he promises the citizens of the Capitol a fantastic show and then introduces the stylist behind the final six designs as well as the amazing and memorable clothing Katniss wore during the 74th Hunger Games.

As the show progresses, Annie begins to feel sorry for Katniss Everdeen. The show is mostly about the dresses, which are as gorgeous as promised, but that’s the problem: The show should be about Katniss and what the dresses mean to her, what she thinks about them, which one she might prefer to wear to her own wedding. Instead, it’s about which dress is more popular with the citizens of the Capitol, and don’t forget that voting on the designs is open until the end of the week. Katniss is nothing more than an afterthought, a living mannequin for the Capitol to dress up. Annie wonders if Katniss has realized that yet.

When the closing credits begin to roll, Annie is half asleep, but Flickerman’s voice promising an announcement regarding this year’s Hunger Games jars her awake. She sits up as the Seal of Panem appears and the Hunger Games anthem begins to play. Her blood roars in her ears as she reaches for the remote to turn it off, but she can’t find it right away and so can’t cut off the sounds of the Games, the music that permeates her nightmares.

President Coriolanus Snow climbs the steps of a stage in front of the presidential mansion and Annie drops back to the couch, her search for the remote ended as she curls into herself. She blinks and he pulls an envelope from a box, licking his blood red lips as he opens it and begins to read. She covers her ears with her hands to shut out the sound, but it doesn’t work. It never works.

_“On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors.”_

Snow’s words echo in Annie’s head, growing louder with each repetition. _…existing pool of victors. …existing pool of victors. …existing pool of victors._ A scream tears at her throat, but the only sound that escapes is a pathetic whimper. “Can’t go back,” she whispers, but there’s no one to hear. Finnick isn’t there.

Curling into a ball at the end of the couch farthest from the television, Annie sinks beneath deep, dark water, bone-chillingly cold. She gasps for air, but can’t take enough in to push the darkness away from the edges of her vision. The smell of salt water and rotting seaweed, coppery blood and cloying roses is everywhere, burrowing into her skin like tiny muttations; the pinpricks of their teeth and claws tear at her arms as she drowns, shivering in the murky water. A tiny part of her is aware that she’s in her living room, curled up on the couch, that she was watching television and waiting for Finnick to return home from a day of fishing with his family when President Snow made his announcement, but that part isn’t strong enough to fight the pull of the arena.

In the background, a recap show of all the most memorable scenes from seventy-four years of Hunger Games plays, including the explosive flooding of the arena when the dam broke during the 70th Hunger Games – Annie’s Games. A rapid-fire musical montage begins with a loud pounding of drums; it translates to the booms of cannon in Annie’s reality, the sound vibrating through her whole body, threatening to tear her apart. _I’m dead_ , she thinks, _I must be dead, those cannons are firing for me._ But still she feels the sting of the muttations’ needle teeth and razor sharp claws tearing at her arms.

A new cannon fires, the sound much closer. Annie tries to burrow into the couch, to hide from the muttations shredding her arms, but hands grab her wrists and drag her from her hiding place into a pair of strong arms.

“Annie, no! Baby, stop! Don’t do this.” Finnick’s voice, but he can’t be here. He’s in the Capitol with the other victors, the ones who survived their Games. Not like her, dead in the arena. The stinging in her arms lessens, but the smell of blood is stronger than ever, overwhelming even the cloying stench of the roses, the dark green rot of the seaweed. Annie drifts between the arena and the real world. Finnick holds her in his arms, but she’s not safe. Never safe.

When Finnick lifts her from the couch, Annie opens her eyes at the sensation of floating, but she sees nothing but murky water. He carries her upstairs to their bedroom, lays her gently on their bed. After a time, she becomes aware that someone else is in the room when a woman sits down beside Annie on the bed, holds a glass to her lips, orders her to drink with such quiet authority that Annie does so without hesitation. It takes a moment for the woman’s face, her calm voice to register: Finnick’s mother.

Jenna lowers the glass once Annie empties it and sets it on the bedside table. “She’ll sleep now, Finnick. We’ll see how she is when she wakes.” Jenna stands and walks over to Finnick where he fills the doorway. “Now let me see to your hands, son.”

“Mom…” He takes a step, backing away from his mother, away from Annie, who reaches one hand out to him. His eyes focus on that hand.

“Finnick, they’ll scar,” Jenna protests.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says as he steps past Jenna, drops to his knees beside Annie and takes her outstretched hand in both of his. His own hands are sticky and wet and the coppery smell is stronger. “I don’t get to keep my scars,” he whispers, so low that Annie thinks maybe she’s the only one who can hear him. “I’m right here, Annie. Please just stay with me.”

Kneeling beside her son, Jenna gently pulls one of his bloody hands from Annie’s, leaving Annie to hold the other as her eyes drift closed.


	2. What Don't Kill Me...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Suicide

**Chapter Two - What Don't Kill Me...**

Annie’s knife hits the target with a solid thunk, dislodging one of Finnick’s in the process. The blade falls to the sand to join one of his earlier throws that hit hilt first, never having a chance to stick in the wooden target. Applause sounds from behind them and Finnick shoots Mags a sour look over his shoulder. “Really? You’re going to make her head swell.”

Mags hoots at him and gives Annie a thumbs-up gesture. “Someone… take you down… peg, hijo.”

“Why don’t you go take a nap or something.” He waves his hand dismissively at Mags and stalks to the target, first pulling the knives from it before leaning down to pick up the two that fell. He doesn’t let either woman see how pleased he is at Annie’s throws: most of hers are within the inner circle and all are more solid hits than his. He refuses to think about her going back into the arena, but if the unthinkable happens, he wants her to have every advantage she can. If she's reaped and he isn't, he'll volunteer for whoever is.

The last few weeks sped by. Every day, whether spent fishing with his father and uncles or training with his fellow victors, is one more day closer to the reaping. It was bad enough when he was a kid and didn’t know what to expect, when it was all some big adventure. What fourteen-year-old ever believes he could die? But ten years later, he not only knows he could die in the arena – _not thinking about Annie, not thinking about Annie_ – he expects it. Dealing death to someone else isn’t all that easy, either, and if he goes into the arena again, he’ll be forced to kill people he’s known for years, some of them friends. And that’s if he makes it past the Cornucopia.

It's been almost a month since the announcement of the terms of the third Quarter Quell and they’re finally pulling it together, acting like the Careers they all used to be. All except for Mags, anyway, who declared herself done with training before any of the others were born. In the days since, when the rest of the victors are out on the beach working out, sparring, learning new weapons and techniques, she comes out to watch; sometimes she brings advice and sometimes she brings cookies, but she doesn’t participate in the physical activity even when it’s something the stroke she had almost a year ago wouldn’t hinder.

Down the beach from where he and Annie practice throwing knives, Azimuth Pike and Gil Keely go after each other with swords, blunted to reduce the risk of real damage. The two are fairly evenly matched, although Gil is the twistier of the pair, both physically and mentally, and occasionally slips in a feint or a side-step that throws his fencing partner. Although “hacking partner” might be a more accurate description. Far enough away to be safe, Martin Perch and Angel Banyan practice hand-to-hand combat.

Up slope from Angel and Martin, Jackson Hull teaches his oldest son how to fight with a knife, lunges and feints, blocks and attacks, while a floppy-eared hound dances around them. The boy pestered his father all morning to let him train with them, but it wasn’t until after lunch that Jack caved. Lirin turned twelve a couple of weeks earlier, old enough to be reaped and certainly old enough to train, even if he is safe this year due to the change in the rules brought on by the Quarter Quell. Or, as Finnick suspects, brought on by Snow’s suspicions that a number of the victors aren’t as loyal to the Capitol as he thinks they ought to be. He wonders if Heavensbee could get a look at the original card, see what the terms of the Quell should be compared to what Snow announced on television.

Martin rapidly steps left and forward, snaking an arm around Angel’s shoulders and digging his fingers into her upper arm for a solid grip. Martin is a good fifteen years younger than Angel and twice her size. And at the moment, unless Finnick is mistaken, Angel is about to send the man flying.

A flare of dark hair caught by the freshening breeze from the sea draws Finnick’s attention and he glances that way to see Annie wandering over to watch the two older victors spar with each other, since Finnick wasn’t forthcoming with the knives for another round. Right after lunch, Annie, fascinated by the various holds and throws, watched them from the safety of Mags’ blanket while Mags offered critique. She comes to a stop almost directly across from Finnick, watching the pair of combatants intently. She pays especially close attention to Angel’s stance and hand placement as Angel dislodges Martin’s hold on her with relative ease, throwing the much larger man to the sand. Finnick smiles, looking forward to Annie trying to throw him.

Rolling to his feet, Martin brushes sand from his clothes and looks at Annie, who stares calmly back at him. She’s getting used to being around the others, is no longer reluctant to train with them, as she was just a few days ago. Finnick wouldn’t call any of them harmless – no victor is entirely harmless, no matter what their outward appearance might be – but they’ve all gone out of their way to set Annie at ease, if for no other reason than that they don’t know her well enough to know what might trigger an episode.

“Your turn, sweet Annie,” Martin says with a smile and a half bow, offering her his left hand. She takes it and even as Martin attempts to pull her into a choke hold, she sidesteps, maintaining her grip on his hand and bringing his arm up behind his back.

“That looks like it hurts,” Finnick laughs. “She’s not an easy mark, Perch.”

“Now you tell me.” Martin’s face is red and his voice strained. As Finnick learned years ago, once Annie commits to something, she doesn’t do it halfway, and she’s stronger than she looks. “You win, Annie,” Martin tells her. “You can let go now.”

Annie smiles over at Finnick and then, still holding Martin immobile, leans forward so she can see the older man’s expression. “Not so sweet,” she says before releasing him and taking a prudent step back.

Shaking out his arm, Martin looks over at Finnick and then back to Annie. With a wink he tells her, “Nothing wrong with a little spice.” Then he nods at Finnick and heads over to commiserate with Pike, whose battle with Gil ended when Gil’s practice sword broke over Pike’s skull at about the same time Angel threw Martin to the ground. Pike sits on the blanket Mags abandoned, holding a pack of ice to his head. Mags herself is halfway up the slope. At the top of the hill amidst a patch of scrubby beach grasses, Branwen Hull stands with her hand shading her eyes as she looks out over the beach. She greets Mags in passing and a second or two later, Jack notices her and he and his boy walk up the path, done for the day. The boy’s dog lopes after them.

 _Fair enough_ , Finnick thinks, _we’ve been out here since mid-morning and it’s got to be close to suppertime._ He holds out a hand to Annie. “Home?” he asks. She hesitates and looks at Angel, who shrugs.

“I can show you those moves in the morning, Annie,” Angel offers. “Looks like we wore your boyfriend out.”

“In your dreams, Angel,” Finnick tells her as Annie takes his hand and leads him up the beach toward their house and a meal of leftover fish stew and salty, crusty bread.

xXx

Annie wakes a few minutes past midnight and finds Finnick gone. He had a restless night, so she isn’t surprised. She makes a quick circuit of the house to make sure he isn’t there, not bothering to turn on the lights; there’s enough moonlight streaming in through the windows for her to see by, and she doesn’t want to destroy her night vision. She knows she won’t find Finnick in the house. Nights like this, he walks on the beach, not wanting to interrupt Annie’s sleep, especially if she’s having a good night.

It’s comfortably warm outside. She makes her way down the steps to the beach, the breeze strong enough to catch and play with her hair, whipping long strands into her face. She has to pull it away from her eyes several times before finally braiding it back in self defense. The braid will unravel, since she has nothing to tie it with, but in the meantime, her hair will stop trying to blind her as she walks across the shifting sands.

He stands in the moonlight maybe a quarter mile down the beach from their house, watching the surf, looking out to sea. The beacon from the lighthouse on the mainland flares and fades, flares and fades as she walks toward him. He threw on a shirt and shorts before leaving, but he didn’t bother with shoes; he likes the feel of the sand beneath his feet. She feels the same way. It doesn’t look as though he’s aware of her presence, which means that he probably knew it the moment she set foot on the beach.

Wanting to lighten the mood Finnick’s been in all night and feeling a little playful, Annie decides to sneak up on him, circling around to come at him from behind, outside the range of his peripheral vision. She watched Angel and Martin throw each other at least a dozen times this afternoon and even though Angel didn’t get the chance to show her how to do it, Annie thinks she understands the geometry involved. But before she has a chance to apply theory to practice, Finnick moves. He easily spins her, pushes her down, and pins her to the ground with his body, confirming her suspicion that he knew she was there all along.

She squirms under him, tries to free her arms, to buck him off, but he laughs, low and sexy. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asks, nuzzling at the pulse point beneath her jaw, and she shivers.

“Back to bed?”

Another laugh that sends heat radiating through her. “Good idea…” He brushes her lips with his, rocks his hips against hers and she stretches upward to meet his kiss, opens her mouth to the touch of his tongue, licks into his mouth as his hand strokes down over her hip, her thigh, comes to rest on her bent knee. She pulls her mouth from his, sucks at his throat just below his jaw and feels his pulse racing.

He pulls back and looks down at her, strokes her cheek with the hand that was on her knee a moment before, brushes his thumb across her lower lip as he watches her face. She nips at his thumb, sucks it into her mouth and smiles up at him. He’s backlit by the moon so she can’t see his face, only the corona of his hair, the moonlight making it look like the silver lining around a dark cloud.

Lowering his head, he peppers her lips and nose, her eyes, her brows, with light, quick kisses. “Do you have any idea how much I love you?” Where he was all playful teasing before, his tone now is intense.

“I think I might have some idea…” she whispers, raises her head for another kiss, but he stays out of reach.

“No.” He shakes his head. “No, I don’t think you do.” He stares down at her for a moment and she wishes she could see his eyes in the darkness.

Annie reaches up to trace the lines of his mouth with a fingertip, then reaches further, slides her hand around to the back of his head, pulls him down for another kiss, deeper, rougher than before. He kisses her breathless, rocking his hips against her, shifting so that he can slip a hand between them to nudge her shorts out of his way.

The sound of a woman’s scream slices through the night. In an instant, Finnick rolls off Annie and pulls her to her feet along with him as he stands. Annie is a little disoriented and before she can get her bearings, Finnick is sprinting up the beach toward the houses. Annie follows as quickly as she can, both of them running toward the one house that has light streaming from its windows. Jackson Hull’s.

As they draw near, the lights begin to go on in the houses to either side of it. Finnick dashes up the steps of the Hulls’ house, Annie right behind. They’re the first to arrive, even before the immediate neighbors. Finnick pounds on the front door and, when no one answers and the screaming doesn’t stop, he takes a couple of steps back and then slams his shoulder into the door, using his momentum and his body weight to send it crashing inward, the lock and two of its hinges twisted and broken. There are more stairs directly across from the door; the screams come from the second floor. He runs up the stairs, taking them two at a time, but stops abruptly in the open doorway of one of the rooms and Annie slams into his back.

Finnick puts an arm out to the side, preventing her from going around him. “Annie, baby, stay back. You don’t need to see this,” he tells her then pushes past the Hulls’ three children to get to their mother.

Annie doesn’t step back and can’t help but look: Jackson Hull, victor of the 46th Hunger Games, hangs from the overhead light fixture of the small bedroom. Annie can’t breathe, can’t look away from his wide, staring eyes. Dead eyes.

“Lir, find me something to cut him down,” Finnick tells the boy, who jumps, startled, then slips past Annie to race down the hall. He returns a few seconds later with a folding knife that he hands over to Finnick.

Annie takes a deep breath and blinks back tears. She forces herself to move, to go to Branwen Hull and take her hand, lead her from the room; the woman resists, so Annie doesn’t make her move any further than the hallway. Her two little girls, Mia and Moire, follow, Mia clinging to Branwen’s other hand and Moire taking hold of the hem of Annie’s shirt.

With the touch of Annie’s hand, Branwen stops screaming only to make strangled whimpers instead as Finnick steps up onto a chair so he can cut Jack down. He saws at the rope, which resists. Before he cuts all the way through, Pike and Angel, who live to either side of the Hulls, come up the stairs and Pike helps Finnick while Angel leads Branwen away. Lir stays with Finnick and Pike, his attention alternating between them and his mother.

Refusing to go any further, Branwen stops at the top of the stairs, Angel two steps down, Annie and the girls following a little behind Branwen. From her angle, Annie can still see what’s happening in the little bedroom.

The rope finally gives way and Jack’s body falls, nearly knocking Finnick from the chair. “Grab him!” Finnick says as he jumps from the chair to save himself from a fall, but then he and Pike get a good grip on Jack and they carefully lower him, laying him out on the bed.

Branwen collapses against the wall and Angel jumps to catch her before she can tumble down the stairs. She puts her arms around her, steadies her as she begins to sob against her neck. Moire clings to Annie’s thigh as Mia, standing by herself, watches her mother and Angel.

“Mia.” Annie calls the girl over to her. She looks to her mother and then back at Annie before running to Annie and letting her pull her up against her side. Annie puts her arm around Mia and lets her own tears fall, then, not for Jack or Branwen, but for Moire and Mia, barely a year apart in age, who sometimes come out to play with Annie on the beach after school, collecting shells or returning stranded starfish to the sea.

xXx

There is a thumping, whirring noise outside and then, not long after, loud voices downstairs. Peacekeepers. Someone must have called them. One of them, a woman, comes up the stairs and starts asking questions of Angel and Annie; Branwen is in no condition to answer anything. The name on the woman’s uniform is Leto. Angel tells her all she knows is that she was awakened by screaming and came to investigate, found Annie and Finnick already here, Jack hanging from a light fixture. A male Peacekeeper comes upstairs, brushing past Officer Leto with a quick, “Pardon me, ma’am.”

“Secure things upstairs,” Leto orders him as he passes.

“Yes, ma’am.” He knocks into Annie as she pushes Moira behind her, standing between the little girl and the much larger Peacekeeper.

A moment later the male Peacekeeper asks, “Which one of you moved the body?”

Finnick steps forward. “I did.”

“You’re under arrest,” he tells Finnick and reaches toward him with one hand as he removes a set of handcuffs from his belt.

“Excuse me?” Finnick asks, surprised.

“What the hell for?” Pike protests.

Finnick tells Lirin to go downstairs as the Peacekeeper turns him around and locks his wrists into the cuffs. As the boy goes out into the hallway, Annie tells his sisters to follow him and herself hurries into the bedroom. Officer Leto continues questioning Angel since Branwen is still unresponsive.

“What the hell are you doing?” Pike shouts and reaches for the Peacekeeper, who shoves him away and pushes Finnick toward the door.

“What crime have I committed?” Finnick asks, keeping his voice at a reasonable level, although it’s difficult. He sees Annie in the doorway and shakes his head, telling her silently not to enter. He doesn’t want her involved in this, whatever “this” is.

“Tampering with evidence during an investigation,” the man tells him. The name on his uniform is Corbett.

“Evidence? What investigation?” That’s Pike again.

“Investigation? Jack killed himself,” Finnick tells Corbett, his voice raised to be heard above Pike. “Last I heard, suicide isn’t a crime.”

Office Leto excuses herself from Angel and climbs the last couple of steps, stops in the doorway next to Annie. “Corbett. Take those cuffs off Mr. Odair.”

“But, ma’am, our orders—”

“I will tell you what your orders are, Peacekeeper Corbett. Release him.” She’s not a particularly large woman, but there’s an air of authority about her.

“Ma’am,” Corbett acknowledges and then jerks Finnick back around to unlock the cuffs.

Leto turns to Finnick. “You said you’re the one who moved the body?”

“Yes. Annie and I were walking on the beach when we heard Branwen scream. When we got here…” Leto holds up a hand, interrupting him.

“You’re the one who broke the door?”

“Yes.” She nods and indicates that he should continue. “Jack was already dead when we got here. I cut him down and Pike and I moved him to the bed.”

“There was no crime,” Pike interjects.

One eyebrow raised, Leto tells Pike, “You’re free to go, Mr. Pike. If I have any questions for you, I’ll contact you in the morning.”

When Pike walks past Finnick, he glances over at Annie and then asks, “Why the hell did you call the Peacekeepers, Odair?”

Finnick frowns. “I didn’t. I thought you or Angel did.”

“Mr. Pike.” Leto says nothing else.

Pike raises his hands. “All right. I’m going.”

Once he’s headed down the stairs, Finnick asks, “Why are you treating this like a crime scene, Officer Leto?”

She studies first Finnick and then Annie before she answers. “Since Mr. Hull took the existing pool of victors from sixty to fifty-nine.”

Annie’s gaze meets Finnick’s and he knows she’s thinking of the reading of the Quarter Quell card, just as he is. The words Officer Leto used are the same.

“So now we’re all property of the Capitol, is that it?” Anger flares inside Finnick. “Suicide isn’t a crime, except when it has an impact on the Capitol’s entertainment?”

“Finnick…” Both Finnick and Leto look over at Annie and Finnick’s expression softens a bit. He holds out his hand to her and she slips past Leto to go to him, takes his hand as he pulls her up against his side.

“May we go now?” Finnick asks Leto, trying to keep his tone a little more neutral.

“Yes, Mr. Odair. I think we’re done here.” She looks over at Jack’s body, her expression troubled, and Finnick wonders if it’s because of Jack’s suicide or the things Finnick said.

Finnick leads Annie to the hallway, but she stops him and turns to Officer Leto. “What’s going to happen to them? Branwen and the kids?” Jack was the victor, not Branwen, and with him gone…

“Go home, Miss Cresta,” Leto tells her, not unkindly.

“C’mon, Annie.” This time, she lets Finnick lead her downstairs and out the door.

Outside there are Peacekeepers everywhere, it seems, although there are really only half a dozen. There is a hovercraft on the beach; Branwen and the girls are standing by its hatch, clinging to each other. Finnick doesn’t see Lirin anywhere, although he hears the boy’s dog barking from the side of the house.

Annie and Finnick watch from the beach as the Peacekeepers remove Jack’s body and load it onto the hovercraft, quickly followed by the rest of the family, including Lirin. The hovercraft flies away, leaving the house empty of life save for the lights still blazing in every room.


	3. Slip Beneath the Tide

**Chapter Three - Slip Beneath the Tide**

It’s early morning and the sun is barely over the horizon when the skiff arrives from the mainland to deliver the mail. Finnick sees it come in and walks down to the pier to meet it. There are twelve boxes at the end of the pier, but Finnick can’t remember a time more than half of them were in use.

“Morning, Mr. Odair.” The old man pauses to greet him from the end of the pier, then tosses the rope into the skiff and hops aboard, setting it to swaying wildly.

“Seanan.” Finnick nods and waves. Several times over the years he tried to get Seanan to call him by his first name, but he finally gave up. Seanan doesn’t call any of the victors by their first names, claims it wouldn’t be right.

As Seanan starts up the motor and speeds away, Finnick collects the mail from the box at the far end, sorts through it on his way back to the house. There isn’t much, so the envelope with the presidential seal stands out. He stops cold, surrounded by wood decking, water lapping at the footers, and stares at the cream and blue paper. A gull swoops in overhead, close enough to see that he isn’t holding food before flying back out over the water.

“You bastard,” he whispers. “You can’t do this to me.” But, of course, he can. Finnick crumples the envelope in his hand, unopened, and starts walking again. His feet pound on the pier, harder, faster, until he hits the sand running. He doesn’t go back to the house, instead runs past it, out away from the cove; he can’t even see the houses by the time he stops running and drops to the sandy ground, staring at the President’s note. He doesn’t have to open it to know what it says, but eventually he does anyway.

_My dear Finnick. It has been far too long since we’ve seen you in the Capitol. A few of your more ardent admirers have been asking after you rather persistently. I think it’s high time you returned to spend some time with them before the upcoming Games. A car will arrive for you on the tenth of the month at 9:00 a.m. As always, there is no need for you to bring anything._

Nothing else. No signature, not that he needs one. Snow’s elegant handwriting is far too familiar. There is no indication of how long Finnick will be required to remain in the Capitol, and Finnick supposes that makes sense, since the law states that all potential tributes must be present in their home districts during the selection process for the Games. But that means Snow might want to keep him there for nearly a month. He shivers so hard it turns into a shudder, his entire body shaking, suddenly cold even though the summer morning is already hot and the day promises to be a scorcher.

He looks out over the horizon at the empty blue sea, at the line where blue water meets blue sky and the only difference between them is the fluffy white clouds that drift above but are nothing but distorted grayish reflections below. A light breeze blows, intermittent, there and then gone again, and Finnick lets the note drop from his fingers. _How am I going to tell Annie?_ he thinks. _She’s been doing so well._

When he found her the night of the announcement, he was afraid he was losing her, but then she woke the next morning from the sleeping draught his mother gave her and she was okay. Not great, maybe a little shaky, but okay. In the days that followed, she was more easily distracted than usual, more prone to stopping what she was doing to drift off somewhere Finnick couldn’t follow, the way she was right after her Games, but she recovered. Every day since, she’s been better, more solidly with him in the here and now.

He looks up. In the here and now, she's walking toward him, climbing the rise from the shifting sand to the more solid ground on which he sits. He doesn’t move, just watches her and waits. The thin material of her skirt flows around her legs like water. Puffs of wind play with her long hair, loose down her back, tendrils and wisps fluttering around her shoulders. He loves her hair, the play of sunlight in the rich brown of it, the copper and gold highlights, the feel of it against his skin.

Stopping in front of him, she says nothing, just leans down to pick up Snow’s note. Her face remains blank as she reads it, but when she’s done, she drops it, lets it drift to the ground with the breeze. Finnick wishes it would fly away, hit the sea and just float off. He wishes that he could pretend he never received it. But it wouldn’t matter. The car would still come for him. He’d still have to leave her.

“That’s the day after tomorrow.” She drops to her knees in front of him, takes his arm and turns herself around until she can back into him to sit between his legs, pulling his arms around her. “I don’t want you to go.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“Then don’t. Don’t go. Stay here. Stay with me.”

Finnick freezes. He closes his eyes, wishes he could close off the memories as easily, and holds himself very still, as though if he moves he might shatter. “No,” he whispers, not even sure if his voice is loud enough for her to hear. “I did that once. Defied him. It’s not worth the risk.” He did shatter then, the one time he disobeyed Snow, and it took him a long time to put himself back together again. He never told Annie about that. Never told anyone. Maybe never will.

Saying nothing else, Annie rests her head on Finnick’s arm. The only indication that she’s crying is the wetness on his skin as her tears fall. He buries his face in her soft hair.

They sit like that, unmoving, unspeaking, just holding each other as the sun rises in the sky. It’s quiet save for the birds and the sound of the surf in the distance. The peace of the setting and the woman in his arms settle into him and the trapped feeling fades. Everyone thinks Annie is the fragile one, but Finnick knows better. She is his strength. Without her, he would sink into the mire that his life has become. He would be lost.

The heat of the day finally chases them apart, at least enough to allow the meager breeze to cool them where their bodies touch. Finnick lifts Annie’s hair, braids it and then picks the braid apart only to braid it again. He nuzzles at her jaw, brushes his lips against her neck. Her skin is slightly salty.

His restless hands go still against her back. “Shit.”

“What’s wrong?” Annie asks.

“My dad is going to kill me. I was supposed to go out with him and Rick this morning.”

“Oh. I forgot to tell you. When you didn’t come back from the pier, I called him. I told him not to come out, that you couldn’t make it this morning.” He lifts the heavy braid off her neck, unravels it, runs his fingers through it. “He told me where they were going to drop anchor, if you want to meet up with them this afternoon.” She turns her head toward him. “We could, if you want.”

His hands go still again. “We?” Annie is as much a creature of District 4, of the sea, as he is himself, but ever since her Games, she’s frightened of the open sea, of deep water surrounding her with no land in sight.

“I could help, too,” she says, “since they’re a man short.”

Finnick pulls her back into his arms again, whispers into her hair, “I don’t deserve you.”

She’s quiet for a beat, then, “You really don’t.”

He laughs, startled, and she lifts his hand, uncurls his fingers so she can kiss his palm, then leans her cheek into his open hand. It’s nearly noon, judging by the sun, and the sporadic breeze finally dies away completely.

He pulls her back against his chest, not caring how hot it is. He wants to stay here with her like this forever. But he rarely gets what he wants. He has a feeling Snow won’t let him go this time, regardless of the laws surrounding the Hunger Games. “I want you to move in with my parents while I’m gone,” Finnick tells her.

“Why? I’ve never stayed with them before.” She kisses his hand. “Finnick, I’ll be fine.” He knows she’s right. She’ll be okay, at least at first. But as time goes on and Reaping Day approaches… “I’ll be fine,” she repeats.

“I worry about you when I’m not here,” he says. “Humor me, okay? Please, just stay with them. You like Shandra, don’t you? And Rhys?” His sister and nephew lived in town, but recently moved back in with Jenna and Thomas. It happened the last time Finnick was in the Capitol and he hasn’t had a chance to talk to Shandra to find out why.

Annie doesn’t say anything. Finnick extracts himself from her arms, moves until he’s kneeling in front of her. He takes both of her hands in his. “Please, Annie, promise me you’ll stay with Mom and Dad. It’ll help me to know you’re not alone, that you’re safe.”

She bites her lower lip, but finally nods. “I don’t want you to worry about me.” She reaches out to touch his mouth and he kisses her fingertips.

xXx

Annie stops in front of a shop window, transfixed by the play of light on and through an oddly shaped bit of glass. Shades of green and blue and purple, with veins of gold and red shot through it all, the glass hangs from a piece of fishing line, twisting to catch and refract the light, both the natural sunlight and that of the small spotlight fixed to the ceiling above it.

Finnick’s sister catches up to her, stops to look at the piece of glass while Mags waits for them a few yards up the road, leaning on her cane. “What is it?” Shandra asks.

“I don’t know,” Annie shrugs, “just drift glass, I think, but it’s beautiful.”

Shandra looks up at the sign that hangs over the window, then waves at Mags. “We’re going to look in here, Mags!” she calls and Mags nods, turns, and parks herself on a bench in the shade of a building to wait for them.

A set of tiny bells tinkles as Shandra pushes the door open and enters the shop. Annie follows, carefully closing the door. She’s tempted to open it again, just to listen to the little silver bells one more time. The sound they make is almost as pretty as the piece of glass in the shop window.

She hears Shandra ask the man behind the counter about guitars; apparently he has several to show her. Annie tunes them out, browses through the shop looking at this and that, at whatever catches her eye. She smiles as she picks up a pipe carved from some pale blue stone. Finnick once accused her of being part magpie when he went shopping with her, because she always stopped to look at bright, shiny things, pretty things. She returns the pipe to its resting place and moves on to the next pretty, shiny thing.

He’s been gone a week and she misses him. She always misses him when he’s gone, but at least this time, she’s not so lonely, since he made her promise to stay with his family instead of all alone in their house. It’s not as bad as she thought it might be; she can still feel him there in his parents’ home, sleeping in his old room, even if it’s not as strongly as in their own. And he was on the television the night before, briefly, for once not the focus of the story but only there in the background.

“Are you going to buy that piece of glass?” Shandra asks and Annie jumps, spinning around. “Sorry. I thought you heard me come up.” She holds a guitar in her hand.

“That’s for Rhys?” Annie asks.

“Yeah. He’s wanted one forever. No one knows what happened to the one Finnick had as a kid and I could never afford to buy him a new one.”

Annie doesn’t ask how she can afford it now. Before today, Annie has only been to the vendors that line the town square, but Finnick told her about some of the shops in this part of town, the way they don’t always get their merchandise from orthodox means and thus don’t charge their customers as much as the shops along the main street. He said the vendors here feel it’s more prudent to sell quickly than to have inventory sit on the shelves where it might become a problem later.

Shandra nudges Annie’s shoulder. “That piece of glass?” she reminds her.

“Oh. No. I don’t have any money.”

“No money?” Shandra’s tone is skeptical. “But you’re a victor. I thought you were all supposed to be rich. Finnick certainly spends money like there’s an endless supply.”

“No,” Annie says, frowning. “The Capitol pays for what we need. That’s not the same thing.” She can’t explain to Finnick’s sister just how the Capitol pays for the victors’ needs. Shandra wouldn’t understand and it’s not something that Annie’s happy about or at all comfortable with. Especially not now. She can’t help but remember the man Finnick was with in that television news article last night.

“So you can’t have a pretty piece of glass because it’s not something you _need_?”

Annie nods and turns toward the door, resisting the urge to cover her ears with her hands, to hide behind the curtain of her hair. She doesn’t want to be here anymore, doesn’t want to talk about this anymore.

“Pardon me, ladies, but I couldn’t help but overhear.” The shopkeeper stands in Annie’s path, blocking her way to the door. In his hands he holds the pretty glass from the window. “You’re Annie Cresta, aren’t you?”

Annie stares at the piece of glass, her gaze fixed on the veins of red running through it. There is a sharp smell of blood in the air. She knows it’s not real, but still she backs away from the man, bumping up against a table full of merchandise that rattles when she hits it, but nothing falls.

“Annie? Are you all right?” Shandra asks, holding out a hand to steady her.

Blinking rapidly, Annie can’t look away from the blood-red veins in the glass the man holds out to her, offering it to her. “I…” She swallows hard, looks up at the shopkeeper, but she can’t quite meet his eyes. Shaking her head, she whispers apologetically, “I have to go.” She slips past the man and runs for the door, heads out into the heat and the sunlight. Just runs.

She runs until she can’t anymore, until her sides hurt and her lungs can’t pull in enough air, until the scent of blood can’t find her. When she stops, she’s in the town square in front of the Justice Building. A Peacekeeper is stapling a piece of paper to the big bulletin board and once she catches her breath, she slowly walks toward him, curious.

The Peacekeeper backs away from the board and turns, running right into Annie. He snarls at her to get out of his way and pushes past her, knocking into her shoulder. He neither looks nor sounds like a native of District 4. She ignores his ill temper and joins a group of people reading the page, slips in between a woman wearing a fishmonger’s apron and an old man with the deep lines of a lifelong seaman sun-etched into his face. They mutter angrily to each other about what’s written on the piece of paper.

“How are we going to feed ourselves?”

“But we’re overfishing close to shore already! We have to be able to fish farther out!”

“What’re they gonna do? Tag all the fish so they know where we took ‘em?”

Annie reads.

_By order of the President of Panem: Everything beyond three nautical miles from shore belongs to the Capitol until further notice. Any product of the sea taken from Capitol waters is the property of the Capitol and strict punishment will be meted out for poaching and all other acts considered by the Capitol to constitute theft. This edict has the full force and effect of the law of Panem._

The edict is signed with a flourish in an elegant hand. Coriolanus Snow. Though she’s never seen his signature before, Annie knows the handwriting. He never signs the notes Finnick receives, but he does write them himself. Annie blinks at the words, the name, and backs away from the board. Her place is quickly taken by someone else as new arrivals to the square hurry to read the edict for themselves.

As the crowd of district citizens grows larger, Peacekeepers arrive from outside the square. The angry voices grow louder as the square fills. Annie spins around, sees Mags leaning on her cane in the opening where an alley intersects with the town square; the old woman searches the crowd. There’s no sign of Shandra, but Mags spots Annie and lifts her cane, waves it at her, mouths a word that Annie thinks might be “riot.”

A Peacekeeper shouts, “Return to your homes!” But his voice is lost in the low roar of the crowd. Annie sees Shandra weaving through the mass of people, headed toward Annie. Someone in the thick of it picks up a stone and throws it at the Peacekeeper who told them to go home. The stone misses its mark, but another is thrown and then a bottle follows, smashing in a shower of green glass against the brick wall of the Justice Building, right beside the open door through which a female Peacekeeper walks. She shakes glass from her hair and stops at the top of the steps.

The staccato burst from a machine gun is loud enough to cut through the ugly sound of the crowd. Annie looks up at the woman, at the machine gun in her hands, pointed at an upward angle over the heads of the people in the square. People all around the square back away from the Justice Building and Annie finds herself alone in a little clearing. Her eyes meet the Peacekeeper’s; Annie is not quite close enough to read the name on her uniform, but she thinks it might be Officer Leto from the night Jackson Hull died.

The Peacekeeper lowers her gun until it’s pointing at Annie’s chest. “Return to your homes!” she shouts, the same words another Peacekeeper used a few minutes before, but far more effective as the implicit threat to Annie sinks in. Annie stares at the gun. The sunlight glinting from the metal and the shape of it reminds her of the eye of a snake. A very large, one-eyed snake. And that reminds her of a joke Finnick told her once. She can’t help herself. She begins to laugh as the crowd slowly dissipates.


	4. Liars and Thieves

**Chapter Four - Liars and Thieves**

When Finnick arrives at The Abyss, Johanna is already there. She’s dancing with a very tall, very pale man, her red dress and dark hair a vibrant contrast to the man’s skin, hair, clothes. She reaches up to twist his long hair around one wrist and leads him into the warren of back rooms for which the club is infamous. At the last second, she turns around, the man’s hair still wrapped around her wrist, and winks at Finnick, reminding him of the night he and Johanna first met.

The tributes were arriving in the Capitol, district by district, for the 70th Hunger Games. He knew who Annie was, knew that he’d be her mentor, had stood beside her on stage at the reaping, but he hadn’t spoken to her yet. She and the boy weren’t supposed to arrive until the next morning. Then as now, Finnick had nothing better to do, no one on his schedule, so he went to The Abyss, the closest club to the Training Center.

Johanna was there; she wore red then, too. He recognized her as the girl who won the games the year before and knew that she was probably in the Capitol as a mentor, just like him. She was attempting to lead a guy into the back rooms, but Finnick was close enough to hear him refuse unless his friends could join them. Johanna told him off and grabbed Finnick by the belt, dragging him to the back instead. To make a point, she told him. He was nineteen, she was eighteen, and he was curious, so he went.

They’d never spoken to each other before, but within minutes, she had him up against the wall, or maybe he had her up against the wall. It was kind of hazy. They hadn't lasted long as lovers, but they’ve been friends ever since.

Finnick glances at the clock above the bar. He doesn’t want to head for the back rooms too soon after Jo, so he whistles to get a bartender’s attention. The time it takes to get a drink should be about right. A pretty girl with spiky green hair and glowing green eyes, wearing a skin-tight green skirt and nothing else, smiles at him and dances over to take his order.

“Sex on the Beach, Finnick?” No matter how long it is between visits, Korinna always remembers what he likes. He reaches out and snags her hand, pulls her toward him over the bar and kisses her wrist.

“Ah, if only there was a beach nearby, my love,” he purrs. The pounding music surrounding them vibrates through the bar.

She extracts her hand from his with a laugh and an interesting blush and says, “I’ll take that as a yes.” A couple of minutes later, drink in hand, he weaves his way through dozens of dancers. With a glance around the room for watchful eyes, he slips through the doorway to the back rooms and heads to the third hallway on the left, then the third door on the right.

He knocks and Johanna opens the door, grabs his hand, and jerks him into the room. Her tall and snowy boy-toy is nowhere to be seen.

“Hey!” he protests as a good half of his cocktail sloshes over his hand, splashing his trousers on the way to the floor. “You’re wasting a perfectly good drink!” He shakes some of the spilled liquor from his hand, takes a sip of what remains in his glass and sets it on a low table, then looks around the darkish room for something to dry off with. If his trousers stain, he’ll hear about it from Rafe the entire time he’s in prep. Possibly longer.

“That fruity crap you like? If it was a real drink, I might actually care.” She takes his hand, a paper napkin in one of hers, but instead of dabbing at the sticky alcohol, she shoots him an impish look and licks the sweet liquor from his hand.

“Aw, Jo, and here I thought you didn’t care.”

And that’s the moment Plutarch Heavensbee chooses to make his entrance. He pauses at the sight of Johanna licking Finnick’s hand. “I can come back if you two are, um, busy,” he drawls.

Finnick pulls away from Johanna. “Jo’s just being a brat.”

Heavensbee looks from one to the other and shakes his head, closes the door and walks around the room, a small black cube in his hands. “It’s just the three of us tonight.” He gestures for the other two to sit and Johanna drops into an overstuffed leather chair, her legs hanging over the arm and one of her arms across the back. Finnick picks up a pillow from another chair and slumps into the chair, stretches his legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankles, and slips the pillow under his head. He closes his eyes and tells himself not to fall asleep. The wet spot on his right leg is cold, distracting. Maybe it’ll help him stay awake.

“How long have you been back?” Johanna asks, kicking Finnick’s hand where it dangles over the arm of his chair.

Finnick doesn’t bother opening his eyes when he answers. “A week? Maybe? I don’t know. I haven’t gotten much sleep so it’s all kind of a blur right now.” All he knows for sure is that he’s had six clients in as many days.

“Bet you’ve had plenty of time in bed though.” Johanna’s snark mirrors his thoughts. Sort of.

Finnick opens one eye and rolls his head toward her to glare at her. He runs through several retorts in his head, but any one of them will elicit a like response from Jo, escalating into something he really isn’t up for, so in the end, he just closes his eye again and settles back into the chair.

“If you two are quite finished?”

“Sorry, Plutarch,” Finnick says and straightens up, the pillow rolling from the back of the chair to hit the floor. He finishes his drink, since there isn’t much left, and places the empty glass back on the table.

Heavensbee takes his seat in a third chair and places the cube on the table in front of him. He presses a button that glows green and then he waits for a couple of seconds before he says, “We can speak freely, but keep your voices low. This will jam any devices I may have missed, but it won’t prevent us being overheard by someone standing outside the door.”

“Great,” Johanna says. “So tell us about the arena, Plutarch.”

“That’s not why we’re here, Johanna,” Heavensbee points out mildly.

“Well why not? I’m intensely interested, since I’m going to be in the damned thing in a few weeks.”

Finnick scoops up the fallen pillow and throws it at her. “You’re not the only one, so stop bitching.” He isn’t sure which is easier, wondering what will happen on Reaping Day or knowing exactly what will happen but being helpless to do anything about it.

“You have a one in five chance at staying home. I have a one in one chance of being reaped. Again.”

“One in four and Snow’s not happy with me, so maybe less than that.” There was an unpleasant interview with the President when he arrived a few days earlier, not that any of them are enjoyable. The car Snow sent for him didn’t drop him off at the Training Center, but instead took him to the President’s mansion. Snow commented on how long Finnick had been away from the Capitol this time, reiterated what was written in his summons, that several people had asked about when he was coming back and expressed an interest in his company. Finnick snorted at that, almost amused at the euphemism, but Snow shot him a look and asked after Annie, after his parents, after his nephew Rhys, and Finnick was no longer even remotely amused.

Johanna frowns and pulls him out of his reverie by asking, “One in four?”

Finnick looks from her to Heavensbee. “You didn’t hear?” They both shake their heads. “Jackson Hull committed suicide a few weeks ago. It didn’t hit the news here?”

“No,” Heavensbee says. “I wonder what sort of message we should take from that?”

“Probably nothing,” Johanna says. “Hull wasn’t exactly what you’d call a popular victor.”

“Still, I expect something like that to be reported on, especially this close to the Games.”

Finnick agrees with that and can’t help but wonder why it was a big enough deal back home for the Peacekeepers to nearly arrest him just for cutting Jack’s body down, but not important enough here, where the Hunger Games are all-encompassing, for even a passing mention.

“I’ll look into it, if I have the time,” Heavensbee says. “I suppose it could become problematic.” He jots something into a low-tech paper notebook. “Finnick, have you picked up anything we might be able to use?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “The woman I was with a couple of nights ago was pretty high up in the Peacekeeper hierarchy.” He pauses to give Johanna an opportunity to needle him, but she says nothing. “She told me they're beefing up Peacekeeper forces in the districts, particularly Three, Four, Eight, and Twelve, but also in Six and Eleven. I’ve seen it first hand in Four. Tensions are high and it won’t take much to set things off. Even more helpful, though, she gave me a rough idea of where their weapons caches are located and how lightly they’re guarded.”

“You’re kidding,” Johanna says, surprised. “Why would anyone tell you something like _that_?”

“Why not? Who am I going to tell?” He adopts a broad District 4 drawl. “I’m nothin’ but a pretty boy from the districts, barely a brain in my head.” He drops the accent. “And if I repeat what she told me, who will believe me?” He picks up his glass and then remembers that he already finished his drink, puts it back down. “To be fair, I don’t think she realized just how much she told me.” He smiles. It hadn't been a bad night, really, even if Eshara wasn't someone he would have chosen to be with. “I was keeping her pretty distracted at the time.”

“These people are morons.”

“They can be, yes,” Heavensbee says in rebuke – he is, after all, one of ‘these people’ – “but we can use that to our advantage.” He holds out his notebook and pen to Finnick. “Write down what you remember and I’ll have those locations checked out as well.”

Finnick eyes the notebook. “I’m happy to.” He glances up at Heavensbee. “I hope you can read my writing, though.”

Johanna laughs. “That’s right. You dropped out of school younger than the rest of us. Didn’t quite learn that whole reading and writing thing, did you, Finnick?”

“Shut up. It’s not like that. I just don’t have good handwriting.” _And yes, that is probably because I dropped out of school at fourteen_ , he thinks, _but I’m not going to admit that to you._

As Finnick writes carefully in the little book, noting rough troop movements and strengths, weapon types and cache locations, everything he can remember in each district Eshara mentioned, Heavensbee leans forward and drops his voice even lower, just above a whisper. There’s a barely suppressed excitement in him when he says, “We’ve found our catalyst.”

Jo raises an eloquent eyebrow at that and Finnick pauses in his writing to ask, “And what, or who, might that be?” He pushes the hope that rises inside him back down. Hope and the Games don’t mix, and it’s only a couple of weeks to Reaping Day, a handful of days past that to the Games. It wasn’t apparent during his latest interview with Snow whether the bastard wants Finnick back in the arena or whether this particular cash cow will continue to perform.

“Katniss Everdeen of District Twelve,” Heavensbee answers. “The girl is a walking, breathing symbol of rebellion after her performance last year. And with all the drama surrounding the cancellation of her wedding to the Mellark boy, well. Mockingjay tokens are popping up all over the Capitol, more so now that she’s going back into the arena than before, when she was merely a lovely bride to be.”

“Now that just pisses me off,” Johanna says, looking both angry and disgusted.

“Everything pisses you off, Jo,” Finnick comments and continues to write. She shifts until she can kick his chair, causing the pen to jump on the page.

“Shut up, fish boy. Isn’t it bad enough she and her little boyfriend were pushed into that whole wedding farce in the first place? Now the good citizens of the Capitol get even more entertainment. They get to watch her fight for her life again while we, the supposed good guys, use her as a symbol to what? Start a war?”

“Exactly,” Heavensbee says with a predatory smile as Jo’s point flies right over his head. “Katniss Everdeen is our Mockingjay. She’s our best chance to light the districts on fire. Our best chance to light the Capitol on fire at the same time.”

“Does she know that?” Finnick asks.

That seems to give Heavensbee pause. “No, she doesn’t. Haymitch feels it’s safer if neither she nor the boy know about it just yet.”

“Fabulous,” Johanna says. “We get to be just as bad as Snow and his buddies.” Heavensbee glares at her, but Finnick agrees with Jo.

“I’m not happy about using her without her knowledge, Plutarch,” Finnick tells him.

“You of all people, Finnick, should know that we sometimes must do things we find distasteful for the greater good.”

“Oh, don’t even go there,” Johanna says, eyes flashing, voice raised. Her hands are gripped tightly on the arms of her chair and her feet are on the floor. She looks as though she’s ready to launch herself at Heavensbee.

“Jo.” That’s all Finnick says, just her name, but she settles back into the chair, loosens her grip on the arms.

Heavensbee looks at her as though he’s never seen her before and subtly shifts in his chair, closer to Finnick, further from Johanna. He clears his throat before speaking. “With a pool of sixty—” He glances at Finnick before starting again. “With a pool of fifty-nine victors to choose from, at least half of whom are well over fifty, we need to make sure there’s someone in the arena we can depend on, physically and mentally, to protect Katniss.” He looks back and forth between Finnick and Johanna, but when he continues, he looks only at Finnick. “I’m sorry to ask this of you, Finnick, but if your name isn’t called, we’d like you to volunteer.”

Finnick sits back in his chair, feeling as though he’s just been punched. He blinks and the room comes back into focus, although he doesn’t remember it losing focus in the first place.

“What the ever-loving _fuck_?” Johanna exclaims. “Are you joking? Are you seriously asking him to throw away his life for _Katniss Everdeen_?”

“Johanna, please…” Heavensbee begins, but Johanna doesn’t let him talk as she stands and takes the two steps necessary to reach his chair. Little Johanna Mason looming over Plutarch Heavensbee, Head Gamemaker of the 75th Hunger Games, would be funny if Finnick didn’t think she might actually choke him to death.

“Don’t you ‘Johanna, please’ me, Plutarch Heavensbee. You may design the fucking things, but _you_ have never been in that arena. You have no clue what it’s like.” Her voice breaks at the end and Finnick sees the glitter of tears in her eyes. Angry. Frightened. It doesn’t matter which.

“Don’t hurt him, Jo,” he tells her. “If we’re going to end the Games, end all of it, we kind of need him alive.” He looks at Heavensbee then, but the man won’t meet Finnick’s eyes. Finnick returns his pen and notebook. “I’ll think about it, Plutarch,” he tells him quietly, but all he can think about is Annie.

The first time he saw Annie was the day she was reaped, although if anyone were to ask her, she might tell a different story. He didn’t notice her right away, blending in with the other girls in the enclosure. He didn’t want to be there, but since he was mentoring that year, he had no choice. Story of his life. Hers wasn’t the name called, but the girl chosen first was only thirteen. The entire crowd in the square seemed to hold its collective breath, Finnick along with them, and then a pretty girl in a sea green dress, nearly the same color as her eyes, stepped forward. “I’ll go. I’ll take her place.” Everyone could breathe again, except maybe the older girl’s family. Phineas LaSalle, the Capitol representative for the district, asked her to come forward, up onto the stage, as the family of the little girl who’d just gotten a reprieve cried and called out “thank you” over and over. LaSalle said something to her and then had her stand next to Finnick as the man announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the female tribute for District Four to the 70th Hunger Games, Anwyn Cresta.”

Finnick doesn’t know how long he’s lost in that memory, but he blinks and Johanna is standing by the door. Heavensbee is still in his chair, but he doesn’t seem to be damaged at all, their voices are no longer raised, and Jo’s anger has faded.

“I’m out of here,” she says. “I need a drink. Or something.” With that, she’s out the door. Finnick is sure she won’t leave without talking to him first, so he’s not in a rush. He doesn’t have anywhere to be for a few hours yet, so maybe he and Jo can stay for a while, maybe dance, enjoy themselves a little.

“Finnick.” Heavensbee stands, looking down at him. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to sound so cavalier about your life. You are not expendable, anymore than Johanna is, but there are so few we can trust with this. We can’t afford for Johanna to be the only protection our Mockingjay has.”

“It’s okay, Plutarch. I understand.” He doesn’t bother to mention that Katniss’ district partner will be protecting her, too, given that it’ll be either Peeta or Haymitch.

“Can we count on you, Finnick?”

He looks up at the Gamemaker, a man whose sole purpose for existing, as far as the Capitol is concerned, is to create death for the entertainment of its citizens. The work of his fellow Gamemakers still haunts Finnick every night in his dreams.

“It’s a lot to ask, Plutarch. I can’t give you an answer right now.”

Heavensbee nods. “I suppose the fact you’re considering it has to be enough for now.” He collects the device from the table, but doesn’t turn it off, pauses at the door. “For what it’s worth, Finnick, our hope is to get as many of you out of the arena alive as we can.” Then he deactivates the box, turns and walks out of the room, closing the door behind him. Finnick waits a few more minutes before he follows, trying hard to keep his mind a blank, his memories of the arena at bay.

xXx

Annie sits on the beach, a blanket around her shoulders, watching the sea for any sign of movement. She doesn’t expect to see anything – the moon is in its dark phase and the stars, though beautiful to look at, aren’t bright enough to see by – but still she watches. It’s well past midnight and Thomas and Shandra should have been back by now. They took Thomas’ seiner out right after the sun dropped below the horizon, heading first to pick up Rick and Corin and then for the open sea past Victors’ Island.

Rhys approaches her from behind. She knows it’s him; no one else kicks so much sand when he walks. He drops down beside her with a dramatic sigh and she hides a smile in the crook of her arm, resting on her upraised knees. “I still don’t understand why I couldn’t go, too,” Rhys says. “I could’ve helped.” He’s only thirteen, full of dreams and with no understanding of his own limitations, his own mortality. She wonders if she was ever really that young.

“Of course you could have, Rhys, but it’s dangerous, what they’re doing, and it’s easier for your mother to do what she needs to do if she knows you’re safe.” Annie knows how Rhys feels; she would’ve liked to be out there helping, too, but she knows she’d be more of a liability than an asset. She doesn’t do well under pressure and there are times when she can’t bear even the thought of being surrounded by all that deep, deep water. It would’ve been the same for Rhys, although in his case his unreliability is due more to his age and inexperience than being prone to panic attacks. And the Odairs aren’t alone, they don’t need her help. Half a dozen boats fish in Capitol waters tonight, while the commercial trawlers contracted to the Capitol drop anchor near the public wharf. There simply are no more viable fish to be had close to shore.

It’s only been a couple of weeks since the President issued his edict, but the people of the district, including the Odairs, already feel the pinch. Shandra told Annie just that morning that she saw a man harvesting barnacles from the concrete footers of the public wharf. He collected them in buckets to take home to his family. At least the barnacles don’t belong to the Capitol, he’d told Shandra.

“I wonder if the Peacekeepers caught them.”

“Don’t say that, Rhys.” Annie shivers and pulls the blanket closer around her. The heat of the day has long since leached from the sand and she thinks that maybe she should go inside and change into something warmer than shorts and a thin shirt, at least grab a sweater.

“Do you think they’d send them to jail?” Rhys sounds excited by the prospect.

“They’d do worse than just send them to jail,” Annie responds, but she isn’t sure Rhys, caught up in his fantasy, hears her.

“We could break them out. You and me.” He shifts a little, turns more toward Annie. “They’d probably put ‘em into the cells in the Justice Building. You could distract the guards while I steal the key and—”

“Rhys.” Jenna’s hoarse voice behind them stops the boy in his tracks. She’s fought a summer cold for two days now or she’d be out on that boat beside her husband. “It’s not a game,” she tells her grandson. “What they’re doing is a crime against the government. Treason. If they’re caught, they’ll be shot, not jailed.”

Annie covers her ears, not wanting to hear anything more. She burrows deeper into the blanket, starts to hum a song, just something Finnick sings for her sometimes. He wrote it years ago, a few months after she moved to Victors’ Island and they’d run into each other walking along the beach occasionally, and then later, more than just occasionally.

Finnick’s mother sits down beside Annie and pulls her into her arms. “Hush, child,” she tells her. Annie stops humming. “Things went so smoothly the first two times, they were bound to run into a snag this time around.” Jenna pulls abruptly away from Annie and coughs, the sound rough and painful.

“Yeah, Annie,” Rhys chimes in from her other side. “They’re not even all that late, really. I’m sorry I worried you.”

The three of them sit for a few more minutes in silence until a strong coughing attack strikes Jenna again. Annie says, “You should go back inside, Jenna. Rhys and I will watch. He’ll come get you when they’re back.”

“You know I’d rather be out here.” Jenna sneezes.

“I know. But your cough is getting worse.”

Jenna releases a breathy sigh. “I suppose you’re right. I should at least take something for it. If they’re in any kind of trouble, I’ll be better able to help if I’m not falling over from coughing.” She laughs and ends up fighting yet another cough. “I hate taking my own medicine.”

She stands, using Annie’s shoulder for support. She takes only a couple of steps toward the house when Rhys jumps to his feet. “There!” he shouts, pointing out beyond the end of the pier. “Two boats!” He sprints across the sand, leaving Annie and Jenna where they are on the beach. Annie sees a darker shadow on the water, still a good way out, but there isn’t enough light to discern any details.

“They’re moving too slowly,” Jenna says. Annie hears the worry in her voice.

Annie rolls to her feet and throws the blanket around Jenna’s shoulders. The two women walk across the beach to the pier. Rhys is already up the ladder and pounding across the wood planks to the end; Annie half expects him to dive off and swim out to meet them. When she and Jenna reach the pier, Annie waits at the bottom while Jenna climbs the ladder, the older woman’s movements much slower than they normally would be. She pauses halfway up to cough.

By the time Annie and Jenna join Rhys at the end of the pier, Annie can hear the low thrum of an engine and voices calling to each other, though she can’t make out the words. “There’s only one engine,” she says to Jenna. The older woman takes Annie’s hand, her grip tight. They both know the fishers ran into more than just a snag.

They wait for what seems like forever, but the sky is still dark, the stars still sparkling overhead, dawn not yet lightening the horizon. The waves of the two boats’ quiet passage break against the footers and the single engine grows louder as they draw near. It soon becomes apparent from the labored sound of the engine and the almost jerky motion, that one of the boats tows the other along behind it.

Finally they draw up alongside the pier. A man Annie doesn’t immediately recognize in the darkness jumps from the larger boat and begins to haul it against the pier, tying it off to the cleats. Rhys runs to help and when Annie makes a move to follow, Jenna’s grip tightens, holding her there. Annie looks over at Jenna and even in the darkness, she can see her fear. The smaller boat, the one that was towed, belongs to Thomas and Jenna. Instead of helping to tie the boat off, Annie puts her arm around Jenna.

Someone calls out instructions. A second person jumps onto the pier. Within minutes, both boats are secured and everyone aboard disembarks. “Thomas?” Jenna calls, but his name quickly devolves into another cough.

One of the shadows breaks away from the others and hurries to where Annie and Jenna stand at the end, out of the way. Annie steps away from Jenna as Thomas pulls his wife into his arms and holds her as she coughs while Annie joins those unloading the boats. There isn’t much talk and Annie is just fine with that.

Finnick’s brother Kyle struggles to haul up a heavy sack that missed its mark and nearly fell between boat and dock into the water. Annie gets a grip on the canvas and between the two of them, the sack is saved. The two crews make quick work of unloading and carting the catch to a large storage shed attached to the boathouse. Unlike a normal fishing trip, this cargo was never meant to be sold. Before dawn lightens the sky, roughly half of it will be divided up between the dozen men and women who harvested it from the sea, and the remainder, as soon as arrangements can be made, will be distributed to those in the town most in need.

As she works alongside Kyle, Annie becomes aware that he’s favoring his right arm. He loses his grip on a crate and stumbles and Annie catches him before he can fall. His sleeve is sticky and the sharp scent of blood is in the air. Human blood, not fish.

“You’re hurt.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Liar. You’re bleeding.” He reaches for the crate, ignoring Annie, but she brushes him away. “Rhys!” she calls to the boy, standing a few feet away with Corin. “Come help me with this!” She turns to Kyle and says, “We’re going to get that taken care of.” Kyle looks around and sees that most of the cargo has already been moved from the pier to the boathouse, but he still hesitates. “Do you want me to call your mother?” Not only is Jenna usually the one who takes care of first aid when there are non-life-threatening injuries, she can put her children in their places with just a look. Annie would like to learn how to do that, someday.

“You don’t play fair, do you?”

“No,” Annie tells him. “I play to win.”

Rhys runs over to Annie and Corin follows. After one look at Annie and Kyle, Corin lifts an end of the crate, telling Rhys to grab the other end. Annie can’t see Corin's expression in the darkness, but she can hear the amusement in his voice. She takes Kyle by the hand and leads him up to the house; he doesn’t protest.

The lights are on, but no one else is in the house when they get there. Annie pushes Kyle toward the kitchen, which is where Jenna does all her doctoring. “Take off your shirt,” she orders him as she heads into the downstairs bathroom where Jenna keeps her first aid supplies. She gathers up clean bandages, antiseptic, and a needle and thread. A quick search yields no stronger disinfectant than the antiseptic ointment.

“What happened?” she asks Kyle as she returns to the kitchen.

“Peacekeepers,” he says. He is sitting at the table, shirtless. “We barely got away. We’ll have to wait until daylight to see how badly damaged dad’s boat is.”

Annie sets her supplies down on the table and goes over to the sink, fills a bowl with water, then opens the cupboard that houses the alcohol. Rejecting a couple of bottles – a dark rum and a sweet peach liqueur – the third bottle Annie pulls out is vodka, clear and strong, and she returns with it to the table. She uses a dishtowel to gently wash the blood from Kyle’s shoulder, rinsing it in the bowl of warm water until she can get a better look at the deep slice there.

“Did they identify you?” His shoulder is still oozing blood and Annie threads the needle, then soaks both needle and thread in vodka and knots the end of the thread.

“Looks like you’ve done this before,” Kyle observes.

Annie soaks the end of the dishtowel in the vodka and wipes down Kyle’s shoulder around the cut. He hisses at the sting of it. “I had to stitch up your brother’s leg once,” she tells him as she picks up the needle. Finnick taught her how to sew a wound closed a couple of years ago, when they’d gone out fishing, just the two of them, and he’d managed to lay open his calf. She can’t even remember anymore just how he’d done it, only that it was bad enough to need stitches and that there was no one else to do it. Annie wouldn’t let him sew it up himself, although he tried.

“Have you heard from him?”

She shakes her head, letting her hair fall around her face, masking her from Kyle’s gaze. “Not for nearly two weeks.”

“That’s unusual, isn’t it? I thought he tries to call you every couple of days?”

“When he can, yes.” Sometimes he can’t really talk to her much at all, but Finnick still tries to call her every few days so she won’t worry. She told him a long time ago that he doesn’t have to, but he said that it’s something he needs to do for his own peace of mind. The facts that he hasn’t called and that he should have been home by now have her more worried than she wants to admit.

“Why the hell did he run off to the Capitol right now, anyway?”

She doesn’t like the criticism in Kyle’s voice, but she can’t answer him. If Finnick never told his family about why he spends so much time in the Capitol, it isn’t up to her to tell them. To change the subject, she asks Kyle again, “Do you think the Peacekeepers indentified you?”

“I don’t know. I hope not. We aren’t crawling with Peacekeepers and that's a good sign.” Annie hears voices outside and looks up, sees Thomas and Jenna out on the back porch, the others trailing up after them. She returns her attention to Kyle’s shoulder, pinching the skin together and running the needle through it. He hisses again and grips the edge of the table with his other hand. He watches every move as she pulls the thread through until the knot in the end stops it. She shifts her fingers minutely for a second stitch.

“…see how badly damaged she is once it’s light out.” Thomas steps inside the kitchen and stops at the sight of Annie stitching up his oldest son’s shoulder. “Kyle?”

Kyle tears his gaze away from what Annie’s doing to look over his shoulder at his father. Jenna pushes past Thomas. “What happened?” She hurries over to Annie and Kyle, but stops short, coughing. Annie glances up at her, sees the concern in her eyes.

“It’s not as bad as it looks, Mom,” Kyle assures her. “A bullet must’ve grazed me.”

“If it was just a graze, you wouldn’t need stitches,” Jenna retorts.

Annie continues to sew, seven stitches in all. Jenna watches her from a safe distance, clearly not wanting to get her germs into the wound. Thomas leaves the doorway, which allows the others to file inside: Shandra and Corin followed by Rhys and Rick. _Kyle’s crew must have stayed with their boat_ , Annie thinks. She glances up at the clock over the back door: 3:45 a.m. Corin and Rick will no doubt stay here for what’s left of the night, since their best option for getting home had to be towed into the dock, unable to make it on its own.

Thomas heads for the liquor cabinet and pulls down a bottle of whiskey and five glasses, both Annie and Jenna shaking their heads “no” when he looks a question at them. Everyone else but Jenna pulls out a chair and sits at the kitchen table, making sure Annie and Kyle aren’t crowded out as Annie moves to bite off the thread. Rick stops her with a light touch on her arm and hands her a small fishing knife he pulls from his pocket to use instead. Jenna puts water in the kettle and heats the stove, preparing a mug for hot tea. Thomas pours a finger of whiskey into each glass and slides them across the table to all but Rhys.

“We need to get our stories straight in case Peacekeepers show up,” Thomas says. He takes a swallow of whiskey, drinking down about half of it.

Kyle shoots his down with a grimace. “I don’t think we were recognized or they’d be here already.”

“That may be,” Shandra says as Annie smears antiseptic ointment on Kyle’s newly closed wound. “But _someone_ …” She looks pointedly at Rick. “… keeps shooting off his big mouth about how the Peacekeepers can’t enforce the ban on fishing the open sea.”

“It’s true!” Rick protests.

“Maybe it is,” Shandra snaps, “but that doesn’t mean you have to openly issue a challenge to them! Since they’ve made feeding our children treason, when we do it, we have to show a little discretion, damn it.”

Annie folds a piece of the bandaging into a pad and places it on Kyle’s shoulder, then wraps a longer piece around his arm and chest to hold it in place at about the same time the kettle whistles on the stove. Jenna shuts off the heat and pours the boiling water into her mug, following it with a couple of generous splashes of rum. She blows on the mug to cool the fortified tea within, then takes a sip.

Looking from Shandra to Rick, Jenna says, “That’s enough, from both of you. What’s done is done. It remains to be seen how bad the damage is.”

“If they do come,” Thomas says, “I really don’t have a clue what to tell them if they ask about the damage to the boat.”

“Maybe you could tell them it was vandals?” Annie suggests, unsure of how that might fly, given that she doesn’t know the extent of the damage.

“That could work, I suppose. It’s not perfect, but it might at least be plausible.”

Corin snorts. “It seemed to me like the entire port side was taken out by that grenade, Tom. That kind of damage isn’t usually caused by vandalism, you know?”

Thomas sighs. “Yeah, I know. Give me something better to work with.”

The discussion continues, but Annie doesn’t contribute to it. Instead she busies herself with cleaning up, putting away the first aid supplies she didn’t use, returning the vodka to the liquor cabinet, dumping the bloody water into the sink. She watches the pink water swirl around the drain and her fingers tighten on the edge of the bowl as she gasps, abruptly returned to the arena, the dark, cold water swirling around her, sucking her down after the dam broke.

“Annie?” Jenna’s voice. Then Jenna’s hands on hers, forcing her fingers to release the bowl.

Annie blinks and just as suddenly as the memory came, it fades. She is in the brightly lit kitchen of Finnick’s parents’ home, surrounded by his family. The arena is miles and years distant. “I’m okay, Jenna,” she reassures Finnick’s mother. “It’s nothing.”

“Why don’t you sit down?” Her words are couched as a question, but it has more the force of an order. Annie returns to the table and sits in the chair Rhys vacates. The boy hovers behind her protectively and Annie smiles. He reminds her sometimes of a young Finnick. A moment later, Jenna sets a steaming mug of tea in front of her and Annie smells the sharp sweetness of the rum it’s laced with.

“I don’t know what we’re going to do.” Thomas picks up the thread of conversation and Annie thinks they’re still talking about the Peacekeepers until he says, “We don’t have the money for major repairs.”

“Don’t worry, Tom,” Corin says, “we’ll all pitch in what we can.”

“Yeah, Dad,” Kyle joins in, “I have some planking and things at home from the repairs I had last spring. They’re not ideal, I know, but I’ll swing by with them tomorrow. Use what you can.”

Rick adds, “We’ll get her fixed up even if we have to steal what we need.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Shandra says with a roll of her eyes at her uncle.

Kyle stands. “On that note,” he says with a dry look at his sister, “I’d best get home.” He pulls his bloodstained shirt from the back of his chair and slides it on over the bandage. He winces with the movement, but gets it buttoned.

Jenna finishes her tea. “The rest of us need to find our beds. The sun will rise soon enough and sleep will help us get through whatever needs to be done.”

Annie rises with the rest of them, but where the others do as they’re told and head off to bed, or in Thomas’ case, to get the guest room prepared for Corin and Rick, Annie slips back outside, unable to face Finnick’s bedroom, surrounded by his family but without him.


	5. Running Out of Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: forced drug use, purposeful self-harm, mentions of dub-con

**Chapter Five - Running Out of Time**

Finnick opens his eyes. They won’t focus right away and he thinks that might become a problem. _Then again, I don’t have to focus to ‘do as I’m told.’_ Snow’s latest note made it pretty clear that all he requires of Finnick now is his obedience: _Do as you’re told or there will be consequences._ Finnick shivers as a cool breeze floats down from a vent in the ceiling, the result of an air conditioner kicking in, and it occurs to him that he’s naked.

He sits up and swings bare feet to the lushly carpeted floor, his head spinning, the lights in the room refracting into a kaleidoscope of colors. _Annie would love that._ He frowns. _Wait. No. Under the circumstances? She probably wouldn’t. Shut up, Finnick._

The couch across which he sprawled a moment before is soft gray velvet and there are clothes draped over the arm of it. He reaches out for his shirt – at least, he thinks it’s his, it’s not the one he remembers putting on back at the Training Center – and blinks at the sight of his wrist as he pushes his arm through the sleeve. Smears of blood overlay bruises and shallow slices in his skin. Past experience tells him the bruises are the result of handcuffs locked too tightly around his wrists, the blood and cuts the result of him struggling, but he doesn’t remember it. Sure enough, there are similar marks on his other wrist.

He may not remember what happened, but he feels it; whatever they gave him is messing with the way his brain interprets input, so the sensation he feels isn’t exactly pain. The kaleidoscope effect to his vision fades but doesn’t go away entirely as he shrugs the glittering gold shirt over his shoulders and reaches for his… “Shorts?” The trousers he wore are nowhere to be seen, replaced by aqua spandex. He can’t find any underwear. “Great.”

He sways when he stands, steadies himself on the arm of the couch before he feels confident enough to step into the shorts. As he buttons the shirt, he winces at the sight of the bruises across his ribs and stomach; some are older, fading mementos of the man he was with a few nights ago, but there are newer ones as well. As with the marks on his wrists, he doesn’t remember how he got them. Not good. He feels a sudden and strong need for a shower, but that doesn’t seem to be an option at the moment. It might help if the damned shorts weren’t so short, or if the shirt wasn’t so sheer. Or if he could find his shoes. When he bends down to look for them under the couch, he doesn’t find them, but the kaleidoscope effect kicks in again in full force and he stares at the chromed leg of the couch for a few seconds before he can shake it off.

“What the hell did they give me?” His voice is hoarse, as though he’s been shouting for a long time. Or screaming. This is the Capitol, after all. There aren’t many here who would even notice, either way.

The sounds of laughter and of music with a pounding bass line drift up through the floor beneath his bare feet. The vibration shoots through him and he bites off a moan at the sensation. A flash of light catches his attention and he turns, sees a brightly lit screen outside a picture window to his right. The window takes up the entire wall of what he realizes must be the sitting room of a suite in one of the Capitol’s more upscale hotels. The artwork on the walls, brightly colored abstracts mixed with black and white photographs, all framed in chrome, don’t tell him anything. But they do play well with his internal kaleidoscope.

He watches the screen, realizes that it’s a huge advertisement for the 75th Hunger Games. As if anyone has a choice but to watch it. The current date and time scroll across the bottom of the screen and it hits him that he’s lost nearly two days. Two days ago he was delivered to the home of a prestigious plastic surgeon, a woman who is a particular friend of President Snow, but now he’s in a hotel in, if he had to guess, the Capitol’s entertainment district. Caesar Flickerman smiles at him from the screen outside the window and everything crystallizes in Finnick’s brain – the announcement of the Quell, watching Annie - _Annie!_ \- train for the arena, Jack’s suicide, his own recall to the Capitol and all that entails.

Two days. He’s lost two days of the few he has left. Which means he only has three – or is it four? – days before the reaping. Clearly Snow has no intention of letting him go home. A day or two with his family is far too much to ask, obviously. Anger surges through him. He grabs up a marble figurine from the low table in front of the couch. “Fuck this,” he says, throwing the little statue into the mirror on the wall behind the couch, shattering the glass and denting the wall behind it. “I’m done.”

Finnick is aware that he isn’t thinking clearly, but he doesn’t care. He only has a few days before forces outside of his control rip his farce of a life apart again. His life may be a bad joke, but it’s all he has. The only control he has is over the decision to volunteer as the male tribute for District 4, and even that depends on whether or not his name is called.

He stares down at the glittering glass fragments scattered over the couch and the floor at his feet. He takes up one of the larger shards of glass, vaguely knife shaped. Looking around the room, he sees a door opposite the window wall and another across from the couch. One of them probably leads to a bedroom and the other to a hallway outside the suite. He picks the one he thinks is more likely to lead to the bedroom, and, more importantly, a bathroom. He’d still like to shower, but there’s no time. Hoping no one is in the room on the other side, he opens the door.

The door leads into an unoccupied bedroom, although the bed appears to have been used since the last time the housekeeping staff visited. There’s another door to the side and Finnick crosses to it, switches on the light and waits for the spikes of color to fade. The face in the bathroom mirror doesn’t look like his, but of course it is. What Annie calls his Capitol face. He splashes cold water over his head; it won’t have an effect on the makeup Rafe applied and sealed so carefully in prep, but it might help cut through some of the fog. He gasps when it hits his face, feeling like ice, shivers when icy cold fingers dance down his neck. The drugs again. It shouldn’t feel that cold. He shakes himself and dries his face and neck.

Holding his left arm over the sink, he pushes his sleeve up past his elbow and feels around on the inside of his forearm until he finds the tiny bump that is the tracker that was implanted eight years ago, the last time he ran. Eight years ago, there hadn’t been a tracker to worry about, since the ones implanted for the Games biodegrade not long after the Victory Tour, but even without a tracker he didn’t make it out of the Capitol. They’ll find him now, too, he knows. But it’s not like he’s trying to escape to freedom, to avoid the Games, he just wants to go home for a while, to say his goodbyes. If he doesn’t have the tracker in his arm, it might take them long enough to figure out he’s gone that he’ll make it home before they can stop him. As Jo pointed out, he’s not a scared kid anymore.

Steeling himself, curious about how it’s going to feel filtered through the drugs in his system, Finnick sets the point of the glass shard against his skin and jams it in before he can really think about what he’s doing, aiming to get under the tracker. He gasps, sees a billion colorful lights as a wave of pleasure/pain shoots along his nerve endings, originating from the bleeding gash in his arm. Once he catches his breath, he pulls the glass out, sets it on the counter beside the sink, squeezes at the wound, pushing the tiny tracking device toward the gash. It takes a minute to fish the damned thing out, but finally it pops free. A wave of nausea and light headedness almost overwhelms him, but he pushes it back down. There’s blood all over the sink and he’s a little worried that he might have cut too deeply.

Resisting the urge to smash the tracking device, instead he rinses it off and slides it between the mirror and the wall. Hidden, it's much less likely to cause an alarm than destroying it would, and the action might buy him a few more minutes as they search for it. Blood flows from the wound in his arm and he makes a pad out of a washcloth, folding it into a small, thick square that he places over the wound. He tears a strip from the hem of his shirt to tie the pad tightly in place and rinses the blood from the sink. There’s no point in removing the tracker if he leaves a trail of blood to follow. Keeping hold of the glass shard, the only weapon he has, he heads back to the sitting room and the door opposite the window wall, which should lead out of the suite.

The door is unlocked and Finnick hopes that means that he slipped away from the party downstairs and crashed here without anyone else knowing about it. That might give him a little more time. Of course, it might give him even less time, if someone is looking for him already. Then again, the rumpled bed probably means he was with someone who abandoned him here. _Focus, damn it._ A quick glance out the door shows an empty hallway, a sign indicating a stairway is at the near end. Good. The less exposure the better.

The music and laughter are even louder in the hallway, but they still seem to originate from below. He hits the door to the stairs running and it auto closes behind him. This high up, it’s not likely he’ll see anyone else using the stairs, so he runs as quickly as he can down the fifty-seven floors to ground level. _Better down than up_ , he thinks, wishing he’d found his shoes. _I guess it’s just as well. They’d look like crap with these shorts anyway._

At the bottom are three doors: one that leads into the hotel lobby, one that leads to an underground parking area, and one that leads to an alley between the hotel he’s in and a neighboring hotel. Finnick chooses the alley. He’s barefoot and underdressed in general and very glad that it’s summer. The night air is warm and smells faintly of over-purified water and ozone.

His arm throbs and a quick glance shows that the washcloth-turned-bandage is soaked, but not yet to the point that it’s dripping blood. _I must have nicked something important_ , he thinks and, putting pressure on it with his right hand, hurries toward the end of the alley, but doesn’t leave its shelter until he sees an approaching cab. The last thing he needs is for someone on the street to recognize him. He steps out in front of the cab, which is moving slowly enough that he’s confident he can jump out of the way if the driver doesn’t stop. Or he could if the headlights weren’t so dazzling, breaking up into twin prisms from which he can’t look away. “Wow,” he breathes.

Luckily, the driver sees Finnick in time and pulls over to the curb, rather than running him over. He gets out of the car and circles around to the passenger door, but he stops before opening it, taken aback when he really sees Finnick, well lit by the cab’s headlights. To his credit, the man’s eyes don’t drop below Finnick’s face. After the moment of surprise, he opens the door and asks, “Where to, Mr. Odair?” His voice is a little breathless, his eyes open a little too wide, but Finnick ignores it, just as the cabbie ignores his state of bloody undress. Finnick walks over to the cab and steps up onto the curb.

“District Four?” he answers. He sounds tentative, even to himself.

“Uh…” The man blinks at that. “That’s a little out of my usual route, Mr. Odair. That many miles will be pretty expensive.”

Projecting as much confidence as he can muster, Finnick says, “See, that’s the thing.” He takes a step closer to the man. “I don’t have any money.”

“Depending on where in District Four, you’re talking a good thirteen hours.”

Hoping he doesn’t look or sound as trapped as he feels, Finnick deliberately looks the cabbie up and down, then meets his eyes and slowly smiles. “I’ll make it worth your while,” he purrs, his heart in his throat. It’d be just his luck if the guy only likes girls.

But the man’s gaze drops to Finnick’s mouth, lingers for a moment, and then drops lower. The interest Finnick sees there is momentarily overshadowed by the sight of Finnick’s arm. He frowns. “You’re bleeding.”

Edging toward panic, Finnick can’t think of a single intelligent thing to say to that. He asks, “Is that a problem?” _This is taking too long._ His gaze darts toward the alley, toward the entrance to the hotel about twenty yards in the direction the cab came from.

“I…” The man starts to say something, but apparently thinks better of it. He looks from Finnick’s bleeding arm to his legs, his hands, his mouth, and finally meets his eyes and says, “No, I guess it isn’t.” He steps back, opens the passenger door to its fullest extent, and gestures Finnick into the cab. “There’s a first aid kit in back. I’ll get it for you.”

“Thank you,” Finnick says and slides into the back seat, relieved and a little sick. He still holds the glass shard in his left hand. The cabbie – the name on the license over the dash says Olivier Jones – runs to the back of the cab and rummages in the trunk. When he returns, he hands Finnick a box before closing the door. He gets back into the driver’s seat and pulls away from the curb as Finnick lays the glass shard on the seat beside him. He peels the bloody mess away from his arm and drops it to the floor of the cab, squeezes a tube of sealer over the wound. Taking a clean pad from the kit, he presses it to the wound and wraps a length of gauze around his arm to hold the new bandage in place.

Finished, he looks up to see Olivier Jones watching him in the rear view mirror, but the man’s gaze slides away, unwilling to meet Finnick’s. The cab merges into the outbound traffic.

In all the years he’s been one, and for all that payment hasn’t yet been rendered for services provided, for the first time in his life Finnick feels like a whore.

xXx

Annie sits on a blanket on the beach, surrounded by nets and rope of all shapes and sizes and strengths, bare legs and feet folded under her. While the rest of the family works on repairing the damage done to the Odair fishing boat, which is up on rollers not far from where she sits, Annie inspects and repairs nets. All the nets. Who knew there could be so many different types of nets in so many stages of disrepair? _It isn’t exactly exciting work, though,_ she thinks, her fingers flying over her work, _which is probably why there are so many nets needing repairs now._ She wants to feel useful and this is the best way she can do that while staying out of the way.

She’s repaired so many nets since she started this morning that she doesn’t need to watch what she’s doing anymore; she knows by the feel of it what's needed, if anything. Finnick always tells her when he works on them of an evening, after a day on the sea with his father, that that’s the beauty of nets. Once you know what you’re doing, you can let your fingers do the work while your mind wanders where it will. You can make your mind a blank and just relax or you can work out the problems life throws at you while you weave knots and ropes into nets. You can lose yourself in the past or dream of the future.

At that particular moment, Annie loses herself in the memory of the lazy afternoon Finnick taught her how to repair nets. It was an early autumn day, so the sun was hot but the breeze carried with it a chill. He told her it was simpler for him to show her what to do if he had his hands on hers and that it was easier to do _that_ if he sat behind her with his arms around her. And he did show her what needed to be done and how to do it, but he spent far longer distracting her with his mouth on her neck and shoulders and letting his hands drift from shadowing her hands to ghosting over her thighs or stomach, making her shiver. It wasn’t long before the net lay in the sand, forgotten. She smiles. _It’s pretty amazing I retained anything at all from that lesson._

A cold spray of salt water across her face and neck, her chest, brings Annie abruptly back to the present. She gasps at the chill of it and Rhys laughs, continues to shake water from his hair, deliberately getting her wet. She looks down at the wet splotches on her bright yellow dress, but before she can roll to her feet and chase the boy back into the surf, Rhys sees something up the beach past Annie’s blanket. His eyes light up and he sprints toward the house, shouting, “Finnick! It’s Uncle Finnick!”

She does roll to her feet then, abandons her work as she follows Rhys up the beach toward the bronze-haired man dressed in glittering gold and aqua who just passed from bright sunlight into the shadow of the house. He stumbles, but regains his footing before he falls, steadies himself with one hand on the wall of the house.

The hammering and sawing stops; the hammering in her chest speeds up. Rhys skids to a stop at his uncle’s side and his grin falters. Annie’s close enough to hear it when a surprised Rhys says, “You look like a girl.” He’s never seen Finnick like this before, save for possibly on television.

Annie sees the stricken look on Finnick’s face, quickly masked as he responds, “Do I?” His voice drops a little lower. “Do you like what you see, little boy?” He’s wearing his Capitol face, using his Capitol voice and Annie cringes, embarrassed. For Finnick. For Rhys. _Oh, Finnick_ , she thinks. He came straight here, didn’t stop at home, so he hasn’t had a chance to let go of the Capitol. He hasn’t recovered the parts of himself that he leaves behind when he goes there. It’s obvious to her that his time away was bad, but his family won’t know that, won’t understand.

Shandra steps between Finnick and Rhys, pulls her son away. “Go take a shower, Finnick. Wash off some of that makeup.” She pointedly sniffs the air. “You smell like a whorehouse.”

Finnick flinches, stiffens. “And how exactly would you know that, sister dear? Hmm?” There’s hurt beneath the meanness of his tone. Annie’s there now, where he can see her, but he doesn’t greet her, still focused on his sister and nephew.

“You’re disgusting,” Rhys tells Finnick. The boy glances over at Annie and he looks bewildered and hurt as Shandra takes him by the hand and leads him away, leads him toward the boat. Shandra says something to Rhys that Annie can’t hear.

Finnick follows Rhys and Shandra with his eyes and the rigidity falls away, leaving him looking less angry, more lost. Annie touches his shoulder and that’s when he truly registers that she’s there. His pupils, in spite of the bright mid-afternoon sun, are huge, overwhelming the green of his irises. She reaches up to touch his cheek, but he shifts his head, takes a step away from her.

“Don’t. I’m not clean.” It’s the literal truth: his left sleeve and the arm beneath are bloody, he smells of perfumes and sweat and other things. But Annie can see in his eyes that it’s deeper than that. He looks away from her and won’t meet her gaze again.

“Your arm…”

“It’s nothing.” He frowns when he notices the boat, the stacks of lumber, the buckets of tar and varnish. The sound of a hammer picks up again as Shandra goes back to work. “What happened?” He walks away from Annie, toward his parents where they stand between the house and the boat, still watching their youngest son warily. “Why isn’t she in the boat shop in town?” he asks Thomas.

His father says nothing. After a few awkward seconds Jenna says, “The repairs are too extensive. We can’t afford it.”

Annie stops beside Finnick. “I’ll pay for it,” he offers.

“We don’t need your Capitol money,” Thomas snaps. He turns his back on Finnick and picks up the saw he was using a few minutes before. His movements are stiff, his back unyielding. His disappointment in his youngest child is a palpable thing. Jenna shakes her head and Annie thinks she’s unhappy with both men when she walks past Annie and Finnick and into the house.

For a moment, Finnick slumps against the corner. He shivers in spite of the heat of the day. Then without warning, he rears back and punches the wall, smashing his fist into the stucco, leaving a bloody mark without so much as a wince. Annie can almost feel the waves of anger and hurt rolling off him.

“Finnick…” She reaches toward him, but before she can say anything else, white-uniformed Peacekeepers round the far corner of the house. There are three of them, two men and a woman. The woman is Officer Leto, Head Peacekeeper of District 4. “Finnick Odair, I need you to come with me,” Officer Leto says.

Finnick laughs, the sound harsh, humorless. “Can this day get any better?” He straightens and takes a step away from the house, toward the Peacekeepers. In doing so, he places himself between Annie and the Peacekeepers. The sounds of the ongoing repairs again stop, everyone focused on this new drama. “And why should I go anywhere with you?”

“Your departure from the Capitol was unauthorized and unsanctioned. We’ve been tasked to send you back.”

“Tasked by who?” He stares at the gold insignia of her office, bright against the white of her uniform.

“Sorry. That information is above my pay grade.” There is irony in the Head Peacekeeper’s voice.

Finnick’s gaze slides away from the insignia, toward his father and then back again to Leto; this time he meets her eyes. “Am I under arrest?” Annie steps closer to Finnick, presses herself against his back. He doesn’t move away from her this time. “You know what?” he interrupts, not allowing Leto to respond. “Why don’t you just go ahead and shoot me. Save us all some trouble.” Annie takes his left hand, the uninjured one, and he curls his fingers around hers. “I’ll most likely be dead in a couple of weeks anyway.” Annie can’t stop a small whimper at his words. “That is what Snow wants, isn’t it? To get rid of me?”

Leto stares at Finnick, looking surprised, then she shakes her head and frowns. Turning to her men she says, “Don’t let him move from here.” With that she walks a little way off and makes a phone call. Finnick’s grip on Annie’s hand tightens and she rests her cheek against his shoulder, slides her arms around his waist, neither of them releasing the other’s hand. Finnick’s muscles are taut.

Jenna comes back out of the house and joins Thomas, who has stepped away from the boat, closer to where Finnick stands, facing the Peacekeepers. Corin jumps down from where he works on the deck, wipes his hands on a rag at his waist, and walks across the beach to join Jenna and Thomas. Shandra and Rhys soon follow, Rhys stopping beside his grandfather and Shandra behind Rhys, protective hands on his shoulders.

When Leto returns, she glances first at Thomas and those standing with him, then at Finnick. Assessing their potential for trouble, Annie thinks. The Head Peacekeeper pulls something that’s shaped like a syringe from a pouch at her belt, flicks a switch on the end of it, and tells her men, “Restrain him.”

Annie tightens her hold on Finnick. “No.” She isn’t sure herself whether she’s denying the Peacekeepers or telling Finnick not to fight them. He’s already been hurt, she doesn’t want to see him hurt again. Either way, her protest is lost when Finnick pulls away from her, steps toward the Peacekeepers, almost as though he’s going to meet them. But then he sidesteps and she realizes he’s merely maneuvering them away from her. Protecting her, as he always does.

Thomas and Corin both make a move toward Finnick while Jenna goes to Annie, takes her hand and pulls her to stand with Shandra and Rhys, out of harm’s way. A Peacekeeper grabs Finnick by one arm and swings him around. Finnick steps into the motion, spins farther out, throwing the Peacekeeper off balance, but the other is there and gives Finnick a hard shove, pushes him face first to the ground. Thomas moves toward his son but stops when the first Peacekeeper recovers and swings his automatic rifle up, aiming it at Thomas’ chest.

Annie tries to run to Finnick as the Peacekeeper plants a knee into the small of his back and grinds his face into the sand, but Jenna won’t let her go. Leto wrenches Finnick’s left arm around and pushes his sleeve up past his elbow, but stops at the sight of the bloody bandage around his upper forearm. She steps around him to his other side and repeats the process with Finnick’s right arm as he spits out sand and says, “Shouldn’t you at least buy me dinner first?”

She ignores him, holding the device in her hand against the inside of Finnick’s right forearm and pressing a button. There’s a hissing sound and Finnick laughs as she injects whatever it is into his arm. Leto advises Finnick, “You are authorized for travel between here, your home on Victors’ Island, and the Justice Building. Don’t break your boundaries again, Mr. Odair.”

She straightens and steps back and the other Peacekeeper stands, releasing Finnick. Finnick rolls to a sitting position and Annie pulls free of Jenna, runs to him. His left arm is bleeding, fresh blood seeping beneath the dirty bandage.

Finnick grins up at Leto, the cheerful expression false, not reaching his eyes. “What makes you think I won’t dig this one out, too?” Leto looks pointedly at Annie, kneeling beside him, and although the grin doesn’t fade, Annie feels the tension in him ratchet up even further as the blood drains from his face, visible to her even through the makeup.

“You won't,” the Peacekeeper tells him. She watches Finnick and Annie for a moment, then turns and walks away, motioning for her Peacekeepers to follow.

Annie exhales the breath she held. She pushes herself to her feet, feeling suddenly a thousand years old, and takes Finnick’s hand, helping him up. There’s a smear of dirt and blood on her dress, stark against the cheery yellow fabric. Finnick strokes Annie’s face apologetically with the backs of his fingers. At the sight of his bloody, scraped knuckles, she stops him from pulling away, cradles his hand against her cheek, gently kissing the bloody knuckles. But he pulls away anyway, then walks toward the water, shedding his sparkly, expensive, barely there clothes and the bloody bandage as he goes. Not caring who’s watching, he walks naked into the water. Annie follows as the others return to their respective tasks and the sound of hammering, of sawing resumes.

When Annie reaches Finnick, the thin fabric of her dress wicking up the knee-deep waves, he’s sitting in water up to the middle of his chest, scooping handfuls of sand from the bottom and scrubbing violently at his skin. She doesn’t care how wet her dress gets, she kneels in front of him and cradles his face between the palms of her hands and makes him look at her.

“Annie, I’m sorry,” he tells her.

 _I’m not the one you should apologize to_ , she thinks with a glance toward Rhys and Shandra, up by the beached fishing boat, but she doesn’t say it aloud. Instead, she leans forward and kisses him. He reaches up and takes her wrists in his hands, rests his forehead against hers. Her Finnick is back, having shed the creature the Capitol created with the gold fluff that’s drifting away with the breeze.

“Not your fault,” she tells him. “I love you, Finnick. I’m glad you’re home.”


	6. If They Want You, They're Gonna Have to Fight Me

**Chapter Six - If They Want You, They're Gonna Have to Fight Me**

The leather of the chair is cold against Finnick’s bare skin. It’s like sitting on a block of ice and he grows colder as he sits. Snow’s sibilant voice drones on and Finnick shifts, but that only makes his discomfort worse.

“I’m afraid I can no longer permit you to associate with such unsavory characters as Johanna Mason and Haymitch Abernathy, my dear Finnick. They’re a bad influence on you. For that matter, so is your father. Treason is nothing to trifle with.” He smiles at Finnick across the wide expanse of his gleaming black desk. Blood outlines the President’s teeth, seeps into tiny cracks in his lips.

Finnick’s heart stops in his chest, but then resumes beating, faster and faster until it feels as though it will burst. He blinks, but can’t look away from Snow’s mouth. “You don’t know anything. You’re just fishing.” The President’s smile grows wider and Finnick’s fingers dig into leather ice. “Stop it. You’re not real. This isn’t real. You can’t know anything.”

“Whatever helps you to sleep at night, beautiful boy.” Snow licks his blood-red lips.

_It isn’t real._

Snow hasn’t called him that in years. Finnick repeats to himself that it isn’t real. He’s dreaming. It’s only his own fears, his paranoia playing with his mind. He says the words silently over and over until the mantra becomes a shield behind which he can hide.

Standing, Snow glides like a snake around his desk and approaches Finnick, who presses back into the frozen leather chair. Snow circles him once, twice. On the third time around, he stops behind Finnick, trails one finger along Finnick’s spine, then lays his cool, dry hands on Finnick’s bare shoulders. He leans in and whispers in Finnick’s right ear, “Wouldn’t it be something to have another beautiful young Odair in the arena for the 76th Hunger Games?” His voice is jovial. “Won’t your nephew be fourteen next year? Young Rhys?” Finnick’s heart stops again and he can’t breathe. “Perhaps lightning will strike a second time and I’ll have a replacement for you…”

“No,” Finnick says, unable to produce more than a croaking whisper.

_Come back to me, Finnick._

He blinks. He’s no longer in Snow’s office, although he still sits in the icy chair, unable to move. The book-lined walls of dark wood are now monitor-lined walls of plastic and metal and glass. Three hundred sixty degrees of television screens tuned to twenty-four different angles on a scene of blistering sand and white hot sky. The mentors’ control room in the Training Center. Except that it’s smaller than Finnick remembers. There’s barely enough room to spin his chair around, to catch a glimpse of each monitor.

His eyes widen as a scene coalesces, repeats across the monitors. A boy with close-cropped bronze hair, wearing nothing but a loin cloth, his skin blistered pink by the deadly sun, battles an enormous scorpion, its carapace flashing, reflecting the sunlight back at the cameras as it moves. The boy holds in his hands only a net and a trident he doesn’t seem to know how to use; they are both horribly inadequate to the task and inappropriate to the desert setting. The green-eyed boy looks up at the sky and shrieks as the scorpion’s tail impales him.

“Rhys! No!” Finnick tries to scream as the scorpion muttation tears his nephew apart, staining the sand bright red with his blood. As the scream tries to tear itself free of his throat, Finnick can almost hear Annie’s voice.

_Finnick, wake up._

“No, no, that won’t do.” Snow reaches past Finnick to a large silver button on the console in front of him. He leans into Finnick, presses down on Finnick’s shoulder at the same time he presses down on the button.

The scene swirls and flows across the monitors, shades of dust and blood. It shifts and settles. Rhys stands barefoot in the sand, not dead, no longer blistered by the sun, his trident and his net held confidently in his hands. Before him are two much larger, older tributes, a boy and a girl. They have the well-fed look of Careers. Rhys grins and swings his net, entangling them both, immobilizing them. He spears first the girl and then the boy with his trident, laughing as they bleed out in the sand. His eyes are wild and there’s an edge of hysteria to his laughter and Finnick looks into his own fourteen-year-old eyes.

_Finnick, baby, please wake up._

Two cannons fire and Caesar Flickerman, in his glittering midnight blue suit and matching hair, is there with Rhys. Licking his lips, Flickerman stares at the boy, rests his hands on Rhys’ bare shoulders, almost a caress. Rhys grins trustingly up at Flickerman as Claudius Templesmith announces, “Ladies and gentleman, I give you Rhys Odair, victor of the 76th Hunger Games!”

Snow squeezes Finnick’s shoulders. “The boy looks just like you at that age.”

_Finnick, it’s okay. You’re home._

A hovercraft descends and carries Rhys off to a waiting circle of greedy sponsors, watching him hungrily. Finnick knows them all.

“NO!” Finnick wakes, screaming incoherently. He flails wildly as he sits up in the bed, the sheets pooling around his hips. Fist to flesh, he connects with a solid impact and Annie cries out. But then she’s there, kissing his forehead, his eyes, his mouth, wrapping her arms around him, pushing him back down into the mattress and wrapping her whole body around him.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, horrified at the thought, his heart still racing with the aftermath of the nightmare. He clings to her, a lifeline in the dark.

“Not hurt,” she murmurs into the crook of his neck and shoulder. She threads the fingers of her left hand into his right, resting on his stomach. His heart rate begins to slow to something closer to normal and he forces his muscles to relax.

“I’m so sorry I hit you,” he whispers.

She shakes her head against his collarbone. “You didn’t. I tried to catch your arms, but I didn’t move fast enough. I should have ducked.”

He snorts. “Just another way of saying I hit you. And I’m still sorry.” He brings their joined hands up to his mouth and kisses the back of hers.

Someone pounds on the door. “Finnick? Annie?” His father, sounding worried. It occurs to Finnick that this is the first time he’s slept in his parents’ home since he was sixteen, that they’re not used to screaming in the middle of the night. Unlike Finnick, Annie doesn’t scream when the nightmares take her.

“It’s okay,” Finnick calls, not getting up from the bed, not moving away from the peace of Annie’s arms. “It was just a nightmare.” Just a nightmare, but the worst one he’s had in years, built on elements of truth.

Apparently not reassured, Thomas opens the door and light streams into the room from the hallway. Finnick turns his head and squints at the sudden blast of light. His father stands in the doorway, backlit by a shimmering rainbow corona, and Finnick sees his sister standing behind him in the hallway. He tries to blink the rainbow spears of light away, but they just won’t go. _Great. How long until these fucking chemicals are out of my system?_

“Are you sure, son?”

“We’re fine,” Finnick tells him. “Go back to bed.” _And please,_ please _, do it now and close the door_ , he thinks but doesn’t say it. Annie’s breath on his skin, where she’s simply resting her head half on his shoulder and half on his chest, is making him hard. She shifts, her thigh brushing against him lightly, and he can barely bite back a groan. She nips at his collarbone and it almost sends him out of his skin. He shifts his head to look at her, sees that she’s very much aware of the effect she’s having on him. Still watching her, he says, more insistently this time, “Just a nightmare. Go back to bed.”

Her eyes glittering in the reflected light from the hallway, Annie pulls her hand free from Finnick’s, pulls away from his body, her eyes still fixed on his. She leans over him, begins to brush frantic kisses everywhere, starting with his eyes. She nips at his lower lip, grazes her teeth over his jaw line, licks at his collarbones. Every time she moves, her long hair caresses his skin, a feathery touch. His eyes drift closed without any directive from him when she sucks his left nipple into her mouth and he gasps when she tugs at it with her teeth. Finnick hears Shandra’s voice in the hall – “Dad, come on.” – and then the sound of shuffling footsteps.

“If you’re sure everything is okay…?” Thomas’ voice is laced with concern and what might be – probably is – embarrassment.

Finnick doesn’t answer. His breathing is ragged and his pulse is racing again, but it has nothing to do with his dreams. Annie’s hand closes around his dick as her hair brushes his stomach and abdomen. She doesn’t seem to care that Thomas is still in the room, and if she doesn’t care, Finnick can’t bring himself to care either. He threads the fingers of one hand into her hair, clenches the sheet in his other fist, arches his back as she takes him into her mouth. The tiny bit of his brain that still functions hears the click of the latch as his father finally takes the hint, closing the door behind him.

xXx

Morning sunlight slants in through the open window and Annie watches the dust motes dance in the current created by the sun’s heat; she blows air at them to make them dance more wildly, the motes shimmering in the sun. Finnick sprawls asleep on his stomach beside her, one arm slung over her torso just below her breasts. His nightmare the night before was bad; she’s never had such a hard time waking him. Experimentally, she lifts the arm he struck, winces when her muscles and skin tighten, and she’s sure there’s a bruise on her arm and shoulder.

Shifting carefully, she turns onto her side facing Finnick and snuggles up against his warm body. His eyes are open and he’s watching her, no longer asleep.

He smiles. “I love you,” he whispers.

“I know.” His eyes are clear green, no longer clouded by drugs. He’s her Finnick again. She reaches out and traces his lips with a fingertip; he tries to catch her finger in his mouth, but she doesn’t let him. She pulls her hand back, switches from his mouth to his ear, lightly strokes the shell like butterfly wings against his skin. It’s a game they play sometimes, tickling; she’s usually the one who starts it, but not always. “Do you want to talk about it?” She doesn’t specify what; he knows, but he doesn’t answer, just catches her hand in his and slides it under his cheek, trapping it there. “That’s cheating,” she informs him solemnly and he grins at her.

“I know.”

Red marks on his wrist catch her eye and she slides in even closer to him, lightly kisses the abrasions. She tugs her hand out from beneath his cheek so she can stroke the angry lines. “I hate them for hurting you.” Small blue bruises circle his wrists as well and she thinks they must be finger marks.

There are shadows in his eyes when he says, “So do I.” He kisses her, the lightest touch, his mouth brushing over hers, lingering without intent and her lids drift closed.

When she opens her eyes again, he’s watching her. The shadows are still with him when he says, “I don’t remember much of the past few days. I don’t know what they gave me.” He lifts his hand, staring at the marks around his wrist. “I’m reasonably sure restraints were involved.” He takes a deep, shuddering breath, then lets it out. He hates it when they tie him up, she knows. It always brings back memories of his Games, tangled up by blood-thirsty vines. “Snow wasn’t going to let me come home. Not until he absolutely had to. So I ran.” He closes his eyes. “I don’t even want to think about what he’s going to do because of that,” he whispers. There is fear in his voice.

Annie cups his cheek in her hand, runs her thumb along his lower lip. “Whatever he does, we’ll get through it. We can weather any storm if we’re together. That’s what you always tell me and it’s true.”

He opens his eyes to look at her. “You don’t know what he’s capable of.” His voice is so faint she can barely hear him. He’s slipping away from her, she can see it in his eyes.

“Stop that,” she tells him. “You left the Capitol to come home. So be _home_.” She kisses him. “I need you here.” He’s her anchor. If he slips away, she’s lost, returned to the deep abyss that swallowed her up five years ago, the abyss Finnick pulled her from.

He makes a visible effort to shake off his fears. “I’m trying, Annie.” His voice is stronger. It’s a start.

“Try harder.” She smiles. Wanting nothing more than to distract him from the dark mood she unintentionally pushed him toward, she sucks at his lower lip, strokes her hand down over his hip and thigh, then back up to cup him, already half hard.

“You’re trying to distract me with sex again, aren’t you?” he whispers against her mouth.

Not denying it, she asks, “Is it working?” She squeezes and his penis twitches in her hand.

“You want me to try harder, you say?” He grinds into her hand and then rolls her onto her back, covering her body with his, allowing himself to be distracted. “I can do that.” He nuzzles at her neck, runs his teeth along her jaw, the column of her throat.

“Mmm… More, please,” she hums, and it turns into a moan when he licks down her throat and chest to suck a nipple into his mouth. He tugs and sucks, not quite hard enough to cause pain, at the same time nudging his knee between her legs. She shifts, bucks against him until he fits against her more fully and then moves up her body to take her mouth with his. Stroking her palms down the muscles of his back, she opens her legs for him, arches her knees for better contact as he rubs his erection against her. “Please…”

He strokes the roof of her mouth with his tongue. His eyes are open wide, watching her. She reaches between their bodies, guides him into her and he pushes, fills her. She arches into him, wanting more, always more. He pulls out, slowly, and drives back in, hard and fast, again and again as she strains against him, seeking release, finding it, shattering beneath him. He finds his own release soon after. All the while, his eyes are open, he never stops watching her, as if imprinting the sight of her into his memory, as if he believes he’ll never see her like this again.

After, once their hearts begin to slow to a more normal rhythm, he rolls off her and she takes in a deep breath, her chest no longer constricted by his weight. He shifts onto his side and props his head on his elbow. He smiles at her. “You’re beautiful when you come.” She blinks at that, startled into a laugh. “It’s true,” he tells her. She doesn’t know how to respond to that; “thank you” doesn’t seem appropriate.

The sound of someone sawing wood drifts in through the open window and he finally looks away from her, toward the sound. “It’s getting late.” He looks back toward her. “I should go down and help.”

She nods. “Your father will be glad of the extra hands. And I can finish repairing the nets.” She abandoned them on the beach the day before, when Finnick arrived, and she never went back to them. Her work zone was far enough up beach from the high tide mark that they should be alright, but it bothers her that she forgot about them so completely.

xXx

Finnick doesn’t bother showering, since he’ll be working in the hot sun for hours, just pulls on a short-sleeved shirt and a pair of shorts. He doesn’t bother with shoes, either. His hair is long enough that it touches his shoulders, so he just ties it back into a tail. He prefers it short, but the Capitol considers a clean-cut look too provincial and so he let it grow while he was there. He might ask Annie to cut it later.

Annie dresses in shorts and a sleeveless top and they head downstairs, holding hands. Passing through the kitchen, Finnick snags a pair of cookies from a plate by the refrigerator, since they missed breakfast, and gives one to Annie.

It’s mid-morning and the day is already warm, a light breeze blowing in from the sea. Finnick gives Annie a quick kiss and heads toward the boat while she continues down the beach to something covered by a canvas tarp just above the high tide mark. He watches as she pulls back the canvas to reveal a pile of netting and rope. When she sits down on the beach and begins to work with the nets, he walks over to where his father measures a plank.

“Where do you want me, Dad?”

“Give me just a minute, Finnick. You and I can nail these planks to the frame.”

Nodding, Finnick grabs a hammer and a box of nails. He grips the hammer as tightly as he can, testing his knuckles. They’re cut up and covered in nasty looking purple and red bruises, but his grip is strong enough he doesn’t think he broke anything. Thomas and Rhys join him a couple of minutes later and the two of them hold the board steady while Finnick wields the hammer. The white bandage on Finnick’s left arm is a stark contrast to the tan of his skin. The red abrasions and blue bruises around his wrists are plain to see, as are the bruised knuckles of his right hand, but Thomas doesn’t mention any of them. Rhys, though, keeps looking at them, especially the marks around his wrists.

Finnick and Thomas, and to a lesser extent Rhys, fall into a rhythm as they work. Starting from the lowest point of need on the hull, Thomas and Finnick pick up the next plank from the stack that Thomas pre-measured and cut, take it to the boat, and place it against the beams. Thomas and Rhys hold it steady while Finnick nails it in place. And every time Finnick pounds on a nail, Rhys’ gaze fixes on the bandage on his arm and the marks around his wrists. Finnick figures it’s only a matter of time before the boy asks about them.

When they place the fourth plank, Rhys can’t contain his curiosity any longer. “Were you in some kind of a fight, Uncle Finnick?” Finnick ignores the question, sets a nail in place and begins pounding it in. Rhys tries again. “Does it hurt?” And Finnick continues to ignore him, hoping he’ll give up if he doesn’t receive any encouragement. But his nephew is nothing if not stubborn. He opens his mouth to ask a third time, but his grandfather cuts him off.

“Rhys, it’s pretty clear Finnick doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“Yes, sir.” The boy’s voice is subdued. Finnick shoots a grateful look at his father, but Thomas avoids his gaze. _Okay. I guess he’s still upset about yesterday._

“Rhys!” Jenna calls down from the deck overhead. “Could you please bring me a tube of glue?”

“Go ahead,” Thomas tells him and Rhys runs off.

But he’s back a couple of minutes later, just as Finnick and Thomas get the fifth plank in place and Finnick has the first nail ready. Rhys slips in between his uncle and grandfather to help hold the board. “Do you really know President Snow, Uncle Finnick?” Finnick brings the hammer down harder than he intended, the blow almost missing the nail entirely and denting the wood. He loses his grip and the hammer drops to the sand.

“Fuck.” Shandra’s head pops up from the deck above as she glares down at Finnick. He looks away from her, resolving to watch his language around Rhys, and bends down to retrieve the hammer. He uses the end of it to pull the ruined nail.

“What’s he like?”

Finnick pounds his forehead against the board in front of him and Shandra shouts, “Rhys! Leave your uncle alone!”

“But, Mom…”

“You heard me.”

“Hey, Rhys,” Annie calls. “Could you give me a hand?” Finnick looks over his shoulder at her and mouths “thank you” before returning to work.

When Finnick takes a quick break between boards a few minutes later, he sees Annie and Rhys, finished with the repairs, gathering the nets together and folding them neatly. They lay them on the tarp that covered them overnight and between the two of them, they drag the finished nets up the beach toward the boat house.

Returning to work, Finnick nails the seventh plank in place and then checks on Annie again, sees her walking along the beach, collecting shells, splashing in the surf. Watching her, he wishes they were home on Victors’ Island, walking together along their beach, no one else around, no one to come between them, no one judging them. The longing is almost a physical ache.

One more plank in place and they’re out of boards. He and Thomas head to the uncut boards where they measure out the remainder of those needed for the hole in the hull and begin to cut. Finnick holds the boards steady on the sawhorses while his father cuts, nothing mentally demanding, so his attention drifts again to Annie.

Gulls wheel and turn close to shore, occasionally diving into the water for an unwary fish that swims too close to the surface, sometimes flying over Annie’s head, hoping she might have an interesting tidbit for them to eat. Something catches her attention and she sits on the largest of a grouping of rocks close to the water, leans down to look at something Finnick can’t see. She straightens back up, holding something out in the palm of her hand, offering it to a plover which darts closer, curious, but then stops short. Annie is very still and the bird hops toward her. Finally hunger wins out as the plover leaps into the air and dives for whatever it is that Annie holds in her hand. It wheels away with its prize and she laughs, looking over her shoulder at Finnick.

He smiles and waves at her as she gets up from her rocky seat and starts up the beach toward him. One of the things Finnick has always loved about Annie is the joy she finds in such simple things. There’s nothing of artifice with her.

Sweat drips down his forehead from his scalp and trickles into his eye, stinging a bit. During a pause between boards, he pulls his shirt off over his head, wipes the sweat from his face and then tosses the shirt to the sand. The breeze coming in off the sea is a welcome thing, cooling his skin. He doesn’t remember the bruises until after the shirt is on the ground, but it’s too late to put it back on.

He and Thomas lift the last of the boards needed for the outer hull into place on the sawhorses. Thomas marks his measurements and makes his cuts, then he and Finnick carry them all back to the boat, starting the cycle anew. Finnick is sure Thomas saw the bruises, but he says nothing. They lift a board into place and Finnick pounds in the first nail.

Shandra calls for Rhys, but the boy swims far enough out in the water that he can’t hear her. _Or he can plausibly pretend he can’t hear her_ , Finnick thinks. Shaking her head, Shandra climbs down from the deck to grab the bucket of varnish and a pair of paint brushes. She stops when she sees Finnick, the bruises on his back and side. “Didn’t realize you liked it so rough, little brother,” she remarks. She glances over at Annie, still a few yards away. “Is that why you haven’t married our Annie? Is she too tame for you?” Her voice is heavy with sarcasm.

It’s an old argument between them. Shandra has needled him about his lovers in the Capitol, has poked at him for years for not marrying Annie, as if it was all Finnick and that Annie was just waiting for him to ask. No matter how many times he tells Shandra it’s none of her business, that it’s between Annie and him, she still keeps poking. He glares at his sister but then looks pointedly away, resolving to ignore her. He pounds a nail into the board, but his blows are much harder and far less precisely placed than before. He hits his thumb, the sudden pain of it a shock.

“Damn it!” He only slows down for a second. _Why can’t she just leave me the fuck alone?_ But Finnick knows she’s digging at him now because she’s still angry – and rightfully so – at his behavior the day before with Rhys.

Annie abruptly changes course, heads back up to the house; the timing of it is such that Finnick is fairly sure she heard Shandra. Annie returns a few minutes later with a bucket and Finnick’s uncle Rick in tow, carrying a cardboard box. Rick sets the box on the sand and he and Annie put together a makeshift table of the sawhorses and three of the shorter planks Thomas and Finnick cut earlier. Rick lays out sandwiches while Annie fills several mugs with water. Thomas calls a lunch break and everyone stops what they’re doing, trooping over to Rick and Annie.

“What’s the good word, Rick?” Thomas asks.

With a quick look at Finnick, he says, “Not much good, Tom. Peacekeepers keelhauled Rory Vasquez this morning at the quay.” Jenna gasps. Rick glances at her and continues. “Poaching. Apparently, he was caught red handed two nights ago tying off at the docks with a hold full of fish. Peacekeepers made an example of him.”

Finnick doesn’t miss the significant looks that pass between the other adults present. Rhys, still dripping from his swim, opens his mouth to say something but his mother nudges him and he thinks better of it. Finnick’s parents never answered him when he asked what happened to the boat. Rhys would tell him, he’s sure, but he feels a little awkward around the boy after yesterday. He could ask Annie, but now, listening to Rick, he thinks maybe he doesn’t need to.

Poaching. Outright stealing from the Capitol. One man poaching is a simple crime, but a concerted effort at it by several fishermen is something the government of Panem would consider treason. Reading between the lines, Finnick guesses his father was out with Rory Vasquez and who knows how many others. The fishing was bad enough when Finnick left for the Capitol. If it continued to be bad during the weeks he was gone, with overfishing to the point there was no choice but to venture further out into Capitol waters to prevent people starving… His father, his uncles, his siblings would definitely be involved in something like that. Part of him wants to call Heavensbee to give him a heads up regarding the district, but the rest of him is simply afraid for his family.

Rick and Thomas take their sandwiches and move away from the others to talk. Rick keeps glancing at Finnick and that seems to start an argument between the two brothers. It’s pretty clear Rick doesn’t trust Finnick and even his father is reserved around him. Finnick tries to ignore it as he eats his sandwich, but it’s hard, even with Annie there.

She touches his hand, pulling his attention back to her. “We can go, if you want.”

“Go?”

She nods. “Go. Go swimming. Go walk along the beach. Go home. Just _go_.” She looks worried. He takes her hand and kisses her palm.

“It’s okay, Annie. I’ll be fine.”

Shandra joins Thomas and Rick and the discussion becomes yet more intense. Finnick picks up a word or two, a phrase. “Capitol thievery…” and “starvation” come up more than once along with the phrase “only take a spark” which is something Finnick used himself in his meeting with Johanna and Heavensbee a few weeks before. Rick says something heated that ends with “Peacekeepers aren’t the only ones with weapons.”

Thomas tells him to shut up, and Rick says, “Fine. I’ll shut up.” He looks pointedly at Finnick, his voice raised. “The Capitol has eyes and ears everywhere.”

Finnick still has half a sandwich left, but he’s no longer hungry. With a quick apology to Annie for abandoning her, he walks away before he says something he can’t take back, heads over to the boat. He picks up his shirt and shakes the sand out of it, pulling it on along the way. It’s impossible to install the remaining boards by himself, but he can’t stay any longer, listening to the distrust and suspicion. He climbs up the ladder to the deck to see if there’s anything up there he can do on his own.

xXx

Annie watches Finnick walk away. She wants to follow him, but she knows he doesn’t want her there, that he wants to be alone. Behind her the conversation continues. Shandra mentions reaping day and all Annie wants to do is curl up into herself and make everything go away. She’s avoided thinking about the future, doesn’t want to think about it now, but then Rick says, loudly enough for her to hear, “Maybe it’d be for the best if his name is called.” It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who “he” is or why he’d be called.

It’s as if a dam breaks inside Annie’s head and all the fear for Finnick, for herself spills over, flooding through her. “Stop it!” Annie screams as she springs to her feet and flies at the three of them. “Don’t you say that!” She pushes Rick hard enough to knock him to the ground. “Leave Finnick alone!” She slams into Rick, pounding her fists against his chest, hitting his arms as he raises them to block the blows aimed toward his face. His nose is bleeding, though, so it’s probably too late for that.

“Get her off me!” Rick shouts, trying to get up, but Annie won’t let him and then Shandra and Thomas are trying to pull her off him. She’s vaguely aware of Finnick sprinting across the sand toward her, shouting her name.

And then he’s there and her blows hit his chest instead of Rick’s. Finnick picks her up and she thrashes in his arms, struggling wildly until he traps her arms between her body and his as he pulls her away from the others. All she can do after that is sob against his chest. “Hush, baby,” he whispers into her hair. “Hush.” He stands on the beach holding her, stroking her hair, not letting her go.

“She broke my nose!” Rick shouts as he yanks his arm away from Thomas and takes a step toward Annie and Finnick. “She’s fucking crazy!”

Finnick’s arms tighten around Annie and his body stiffens. “Stop right now, Uncle Rick.” His voice is calm, controlled.

“Or what? Or what, Finnick? You’ll attack me, too? You’ll kill me? You’re as crazy as she is!”

“Rick.” Thomas grabs for his brother’s arm. “Shut up.”

“Why didn’t you just stay in the Capitol where you belong?”

Annie cringes, hides her face against Finnick’s chest. She can only free one hand, can only cover one ear to shut out the ugliness as she tries to burrow further into Finnick’s arms.

“Shut up, Rick. He’s my son.”

“I hate to break it to you, Tom, but your son’s nothing but a Capitol whore.”

Finnick flinches, makes a wordless sound as if his uncle dealt him a physical blow. His arms tighten around Annie almost painfully, but then he releases her, takes her left hand in his right and leads her rapidly away from the others down the beach toward the water. Annie feels them all watching and for a moment wishes for them to disappear, for there to be no one else in the world but her and Finnick. But wishes don’t come true, they aren’t real, not like Finnick’s love for his family, which is why he hurts so much now.

“Finnick, stop.” She can barely hear her own voice, so she doesn’t understand how Finnick can hear it, but he does. He stops, still holding her hand tightly in his. He’s shaking as he stares out at the water and Annie steps in front of him, water swirling around her feet. “Rick doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Finnick acknowledges. “Damn it, Annie. He’s playing at treason. They all are. They don’t know what they’re doing and they’re going to get themselves killed.” Tension thrums though his body as she steps into him and he puts his arms around her. “And that stunt I pulled coming home isn’t making them any safer,” he says into her hair.

Finnick’s anxiety only makes Annie feel calmer, as though as he spins out of control, she regains some of hers. He lived in virtual isolation with her in the Victors’ Village for so long that prolonged exposure to his family is completely alien to him now. Add to that all that’s been happening in the district while he was away in the Capitol, things his family is reacting to that he hasn’t had to deal with himself, seeing how much it’s hurting him, Annie knows what he has to do.

“You should tell them.”

Finnick pulls back from her, lifts her chin so he can look her in the eye. “Tell them?” he asks, frowning. There is a wary look in his eyes and she knows some part of him understands what she’s saying. She takes his hand and kisses his damaged knuckles.

“It hurts you when they look at you like that, Finnick. When they say those things.” She rests her head against his chest. “That isn’t you in the Capitol. That wasn’t you yesterday. This is you. The you who only wants to keep them safe. If they know what they’re truly up against, then maybe they’ll be able to weather the storm. It doesn’t have to be on you.” He looks a little stunned, as though he really believed that she had no idea the things he’s done or the reasons why. Not Snow, but the rest of it, the things that have him so frightened for his family now.

“Who are you?” he breathes, both hands on her face.

Smiling, she stretches up on her toes to kiss him. “Hi. I’m Annie Cresta. I love Finnick Odair. And he loves me.”


	7. A Revelation in the Light of Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mentions of past rape

**Chapter Seven - A Revelation in the Light of Day**

As night falls, the bonfire on the beach seems to burn more brightly. It leaps and dances, sending sparks into the night sky to mingle with the stars, drawing Finnick in toward its light, its heat, to the hypnotic peace of it. There’s been too much of everything the past few days and he’s tired, as burned out as the wood at the base of the fire, nothing but charred coals and ash.

On his way down the beach, the sound of Annie’s laughter stops him for a moment and he turns, finding her easily halfway up toward the house. She stands with his brother Kyle and Kyle’s wife Mara and she is vibrant and beautiful and for a brief moment she is the girl he met five years ago, before he had any idea just how important she would be to him. Before the Games broke her.

She’s laughing and happy, a state far too seldom seen, and rather than bring her mood down with his, Finnick turns away again and continues down the beach to the bonfire. No one else is around it, for now, and that suits him fine. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone, doesn’t want to have to pretend, at least for a little while, that he’s okay.

A long stick lies on the sand by the fire, one end blackened by the flames. Finnick picks it up and pokes at the fire, making it burn brighter and hotter, sending more sparks flying. There’s a stack of split logs and the ends of cut lumber off to the side, but he doesn’t add more wood; the fire is big enough already that they can probably see it from Victors’ Island. The heat close up is almost unbearable – _maybe I shouldn’t have stirred it_ – and he backs away until he’s at a more comfortable distance. He drops down to the sand to sit with his legs folded in front of him and his elbows resting on his knees, his chin in his hands.

He stares into the flames, sees within them a gray-eyed girl, poison berries in her hands and defiance in every line of her body. The girl Plutarch Heavensbee asked him to sacrifice his life for. _Is she worth it?_ he wonders. _Will it be a sacrifice? Or am I throwing my life away for a pipedream?_ Either way, dead is dead. He’ll never know. Not unless a miracle happens and he somehow survives.

Behind him Finnick hears more laughter and good-natured shouts as the family gathering continues without him. Rhys’ immature voice carries over it all as he sings a love song, accompanying himself on his new guitar. The boy is singing to Annie, no doubt, and Finnick smiles, not particularly worried about the competition.

Today was an enormous improvement over the day before, even though on the surface it was nearly identical. Repairs continued on the boat well into the afternoon, but without the insinuations and suspicions. The hole in the hull is gone, replaced by new wood; it isn’t yet sealed, but once that’s done, the rest of the repairs should fall into place fairly quickly.

The extended family started showing up mid-afternoon bearing food and drink, interrupting work on the boat to continue a long-standing Odair tradition: the night before the reaping everyone gathers at Thomas and Jenna’s for a party. It started decades ago, with Finnick’s grandparents, a celebration of life to counter the specter of death, and Thomas and Jenna inherited the tradition when the big house became theirs.

Finnick’s aunts and uncles and cousins from both sides of the family, his brother and sister, nieces and nephews, all are there. Kyle even picked up Mags on the way in, saying she’s as much a part of the family as the rest of them. Finnick suspects that Mags called him and asked him to get her. When Finnick asked Mags why she wasn’t with her own family, she didn’t answer him, just smiled and patted his cheek. He knows he won’t get any answers from her, stubborn as she is. He’s glad to have them here, especially Mags, but even so, it doesn’t make what he plans to do any easier.

Throughout the afternoon and evening, no one mentioned the hundred ton whale in their midst: the Quarter Quell designed to destroy “the strongest among them” and the likelihood that he or Annie – or Mags – might be called, or that both his and Annie’s names be drawn. The prospect terrifies him, but what might happen to Annie if he dies in the arena, leaving her behind, makes him sick.

Superimposed over the sounds of his family behind him and the surf beyond the bonfire in front of him, Finnick hears Snow’s voice from their last meeting, insidious and insinuating. _“I’ve allowed you far too much freedom, Finnick. I’m afraid if I allow it to continue, you might hang yourself. And then what will happen to your family? Your lovely, fragile Annie?”_

Finnick shivers in spite of the warmth of the fire. He draws his knees up toward his chest and wraps his arms around his legs, digs his toes into the sand. There’s no escape. Every path he sees leads to the arena and there’s nothing he can do to help Annie or his family. They’re as trapped as he is, they just don’t know it.

Mags’ hand grips his shoulder for balance as she settles to the sand beside him. He didn’t hear her approach. She sits, her cane on the beach beside her, and nudges his shoulder. He turns his head to look at her and then returns to staring into the flames. “What do I do, Mags? They’re in more danger than they even know.”

She’s quiet and Finnick knows she’s choosing her words carefully, wanting to make sure he understands what she has to say. But what she says surprises him. “Tell them. All of it.”

He laughs. “Have you been talking to Annie?”

She leans her head on his shoulder. Her sentences are choppy, her emphasis on words oddly placed, but enunciated with great deliberation. “No. Told you… stop hiding? Wiser than I knew.” She pats his knee. “They… love you, boy. Should know. Protect themselves.”

He leans into her, rests his head against hers. “Since I won’t be here to stand between them and Snow anymore.”

She picks up on the finality in his tone and her hand stills on his knee. “You… volunteer? For Mock-jay?”

Finnick stares at Mags, at the map of the world carved into her face, at the sea in her eyes. “Why am I not surprised that you’re a part of this?” In the decades since her Games, Mags saw more than any of them, lost more than any of them, Finnick included. He stares again into the flames and wonders if Heavensbee asked her to talk to him, wonders if maybe that’s why she’s here.

“I doubt I’ll have to volunteer,” he tells her. “Snow isn’t happy with me, Mags. I think I’m becoming more trouble than I’m worth.” He looks over at her again. “I’m not allowed to talk to Johanna anymore.” She raises an eyebrow at that. “Seems she’s a bad influence on me.” And again his gaze returns to the flames. He changes the pitch of his voice to mimic Snow’s. “She encourages a bad attitude.” Mags snorts at that and Finnick can’t help but smile.

Annie’s laughter drifts down to him again and his smile fades. “What’s going to happen to Annie when I’m gone, Mags?” The old woman grasps his hand and drags it away from his knee, presses it in both of hers. “Assuming she isn’t reaped right along with me. She won’t survive the arena a second time. Even if she lives, it’ll destroy her. And Snow…” He can’t continue and Mags squeezes his hand, her strength surprising.

“Won’t let her… go back.”

It takes a moment for her meaning to sink in. “Mags. No.” He shifts, turns around to face her, flips her hands until they’re held in his rather than his in hers. “No. You’re—”

“ _Lived_ , boy. Done.” She pulls him in closer and leans her forehead against his, raises their joined hands until she can kiss his bruised knuckles. The worst part of him thinks that if she volunteers then Annie might have a chance, if only she’s allowed to stay out of the Capitol. Out of Snow’s hands. He blinks back tears, hating himself for his selfishness.

“I can’t let you do that, Mags,” he says to her but she just laughs.

“Finnick, mi hijo.” She kisses his hand again. “Decision… not yours.”

xXx

It’s getting late and the moon is high in the sky and painting the beach silver when people start heading for home or to a bed in the Odair house. There are only a handful left on the beach when Annie looks around for Finnick. She lost track of him when first Kyle and his wife stopped her to talk and then Rhys showed off his new musical skills, singing her the song he learned on his guitar. That kept her occupied for a long time.

She spins in place and finally spots Finnick down on the beach by the fading bonfire. As she watches, Shandra says something to her little brother and hands something to him before she helps Mags to her feet.

Annie starts down the slope toward Finnick as he picks out the first notes of a song on Rhys’ guitar. _Shandra must have asked him to play_ , she thinks. Mags strokes Annie’s hair as they cross paths, the old woman on her way up the beach and Annie on her way down.

As she draws near, Annie sees Finnick watching her. He smiles and begins to sing a song he wrote for her not long after she moved in with him. He hasn’t played or sang in a long time and it’s nice to hear it now. Annie loves his voice, his music even if the Capitol doesn’t. He told her once the people of the Capitol prefer to think of him as a poet, that they think it’s _romantic_. Annie thinks they’re fools.

She sits down near the fire facing Finnick so she can watch his hands as he plays, his face as he sings. Drawn to the music, his remaining family drift down to the fire to listen to him play. Rick stirs the flames, adds more wood to build it back up, but not as large as it was before. Finnick starts a new song, this one bitter and lonely, one Annie knows he wrote years ago, before he met her, when Snow first started calling him to the Capitol for weeks and even months at a time.

Mags returns with a blanket which she lays down on the sand beside Finnick. She levers herself down onto the blanket, saying, “Too old… for sand… in shorts.” Annie laughs.

“Hey! That’s my guitar!” Annie turns her head toward Rhys, who looks outraged until his mother silences him with a look. Finnick grins at Rhys and continues to play, to sing. The boy drops to the sand beside Annie, watching Finnick’s fingers dance along the neck of the guitar, trying to memorize the chords.

Those chords morph into yet another song, one with an edge to it, speaking of sacrifice and change. Annie looks around at the faces of Finnick’s audience, sees the varying reactions as they listen to his lyrics. Her gaze stops on Thomas, who looks at Finnick with a bemused expression on his face. As she watches, he frowns, steps a little closer to his son and sits, listening more intently than the others. She laughs softly when she sees in Thomas’ eyes the dawning realization that Finnick isn’t at all the man the Capitol presents to the rest of Panem. _Now maybe you’ll stop looking at your youngest child with such disappointment._

Finally Finnick stops playing and hands the guitar over to Rhys with a bow of his head in thanks. Rhys takes it solemnly, staring first at the guitar and then at Finnick. “I didn’t know you could play like that, Uncle Finnick.” The expression on Rhys’ face when he looks at his uncle tells Annie that any lingering hurt or resentment from Finnick’s arrival home the other day has washed away.

“I don’t get much chance, Rhys.”

“Could you teach me? The chord changes and all?”

Finnick blinks. He hesitates, glances at Annie then back at Rhys with regret. “I don’t think I’ll be able to, kiddo. Not enough time.”

There’s silence then, as he looks at his family, each one in turn, as if memorizing them all as they are now. Annie holds her breath, watching Finnick. When he reaches Shandra, he tells her, “I’d marry her right now, if I could.” He looks at Annie, gives her a small, sheepish smile. “If she’d have me.” Shandra seems puzzled for half a second before turning toward Annie. The flickering golden light of the bonfire masks the flush Annie feels creep into her cheeks at Finnick’s words.

When Annie glances at Thomas and Jenna, she sees trepidation in their faces, acknowledgment that Finnick is gearing up for something they’re not going to like hearing. Kyle’s face mirrors his parents’ when he returns Annie’s gaze and she knows he’s remembering their conversation the night she stitched up his arm, when she evaded his questions about his brother.

“Mags?” Finnick asks and she gestures for him to begin. It isn’t necessary that he voice his question aloud. “Annie?” Annie, too, knows what he’s asking, what he’s been building toward as he sang. Annie nods for him to go ahead and scoots forward in the sand until their knees touch and she can take one of his hands in hers. He grips her hand too tightly, but she doesn’t mind.

He takes a deep breath and holds it for a moment. “I’m… not used to trusting people anymore,” he begins. “But there are things you need to know. Things I don’t particularly want to talk about, but I’d rather you hear it from me now and know the truth.”

He swallows hard and closes his eyes, says nothing more for a moment. Annie frees her hand from his and he opens his eyes again as she rolls to her knees and moves to sit beside him, hip to hip, thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder. She takes his hand again and weaves their fingers together. Sitting beside him, she sees the muscles in his jaw working, but still he says nothing. She knows how hard it is for him to tell his family all the things he kept from them for years, ever since he left the arena. She feels the tension build in him until he takes another deep breath and begins, his voice cold, detached.

“No one tells you when you go into the arena that the lucky ones are those who die. No one tells you that you never really leave it, no matter how long you live after.” He glances at Mags and then at Annie, and once he meets her sea-green eyes he doesn't look away. “No one tells you that you’ll see the faces of every child you kill every time you close your eyes, hear the sounds they make as they die every time you drift off to sleep.”

No one moves. No one speaks. They all hang on Finnick’s words. Save for his voice, the only sounds are those of the sea and of the fire as it settles, sending up another shower of sparks.

“Years ago a friend told me that when you feel like you’re falling apart and the Capitol’s lies become too much to bear, it helps to remind yourself of the things you know to be true, the things the Capitol can’t take away.” He squeezes Annie’s hand and, still holding on tightly, as though she’s his anchor in a strengthening storm, he looks over to his parents.

“These are the things I know to be true.” And still his voice is remote, as though he’s divorced from the truths he’s about to tell them. “My name is Finnick Odair. I am twenty-four years old. I am the victor of the 65th Hunger Games, the youngest to ever _win_.” His bitter emphasis on the word twists it into something ugly. He closes his eyes and takes another deep breath before continuing. “I was fourteen when the Capitol made me a murderer.” He opens his eyes, focusing again on his parents. “I was sixteen when President Snow made me a whore.”

There’s a gasp from someone in the circle of his family. Annie lifts Finnick’s hand and cradles it against her cheek. Mags slips her arm around his shoulders. She and Annie, sitting to either side of Finnick, exchange a glance. Annie is surprised to see tears on Mags’ face. Finnick’s hold on Annie’s hand is almost crushing, but she doesn’t make a move to lessen the pressure. Dragging his gaze away from his parents, he looks at Mags.

“All. Mock-jay. Snow. _All_.” Annie doesn’t understand everything Mags says, but she sees that Finnick does.

xXx

Finnick doesn’t look away from Mags when he continues. “It began on my sixteenth birthday.” He laughs, nothing of humor in the brittle sound. “At least he waited until I was of legal age. I didn’t know what I was walking into that night.” Mags’ arm tightens around his shoulders, her fingers dig into his skin. His former mentor makes a strangled noise as she, too, remembers that night. Mags had known, but she told him nothing, didn’t warn him, simply made arrangements so that he wasn’t alone afterward.

Haymitch Abernathy would not be on anyone’s list of people to call to help a sixteen-year-old boy through the aftermath of rape, but when Finnick returned to the Training Center during the wee hours of the next morning, that’s who met him there. Haymitch was sober, which was a change of pace, and he was matter-of-fact about everything. He stood by while Finnick puked his guts out and handed him a wet washcloth to wipe his mouth when he was finished. And then Haymitch told him what Snow did to his own family and his girlfriend. Told him, “Welcome to your life, kid.” And then later that afternoon, he showed up again, Chaff in tow, and they took Finnick out drinking. Nothing changed, but things no longer looked quite so bleak.

Finnick hated Mags for a long time after that, for not warning him, for not being there, but then he grew up. He figured out that she had no more choice in her actions that night than he did. “I forgave you a long time ago,” he whispers to her and she swipes at her tears. “I love you, Mags.” She strokes his hair as he turns again to face the others.

He clears his throat and tells them, “The president sells us, the popular victors, to replenish the coffers for future games, to bolster the treasury, to repay the sponsors who contribute the most to turn a tribute into a victor. I’m told my virginity paid for the opening ceremonies of the 67th Games.” Finnick forces his voice to remain detached and clinical, a simple recitation of facts. “If you try to refuse, he threatens those you love. And if you ignore those threats, if you convince yourself he’s bluffing…”

He stops talking, suddenly unable to continue. He can’t see or smell the fire in front of him, can’t feel Annie or Mags to either side of him. All he sees and smells is blood and bleach and an underlying stench of roses. All he feels is the hard tile floor beneath his knees and rough Peacekeeper hands holding his arms at a harsh angle behind his back, unyielding restraints cutting into his wrists. He shakes off the memory.

Finnick reluctantly turns to face Shandra. He’s crushing Annie's hand and forces his grip to loosen. His voice breaks when he says, “Shandra, I am so sorry.” He glances at Rhys and then back at his sister, catching and holding her gaze, a form of penance. “I was sixteen. Six months of being used and no end in sight. I ran. I didn’t have a plan. I just wanted it to stop, so I ran away. Peacekeepers caught me pretty quickly, took me back to Snow. They locked me up, injected a tracker into my arm, and then left me there until Snow was ready to deal with me.” He laughs, the sound of it grinding like broken glass in his ears, and Annie snuggles in against his side. He puts his arm around her and he’s shaking. Tears stream down Shandra's cheeks, but her face is expressionless, like something carved from ivory.

He hears again his own voice, begging Snow to let his brother-in-law go, telling him that he’ll do anything, fuck anyone, just please don’t hurt him. Snow had laughed and told Finnick he’d do anything Snow wanted regardless and that Finnick had to be punished so that he’d remember his place in the future.

“Robbie wasn’t lost at sea,” Finnick continues, his voice rough. “His boat wasn’t hit by a squall. Peacekeepers killed his friend and threw the body overboard. Collateral damage. But Rob they took to the Capitol, to where I was held. They murdered him right in front of me.” He blinks then, finally looks away from his widowed sister, his eyes full of the memory of Rob bleeding out in front of him.

“I never defied Snow again.” He looks at Annie. “Not until three days ago, when I ran away for a second time.” He’s surprised Snow didn’t do more than send Peacekeepers after him and place him under what amounts to house arrest, but that only bolsters his feeling that he’ll be reaped in the morning.

Finnick turns then and speaks directly to his father. “You need to get the boat seaworthy as quickly as you can. Get her seaworthy and provision her for a long trip.” He looks at his brother. “You, too, Kyle. Snow will retaliate. And it’ll be directed at those I love, not me, which means all of you are in danger.” There’s more that they need to know, but he can’t risk telling them everything. His parents, maybe Kyle and Shandra, but not the others and especially not Uncle Rick.

Instead of telling them the rest of it, he tells Thomas, “I need you to take Annie and sail as far and as fast as you can away from here. Don’t use the radios. At all. The transmissions can be picked up and tracked even if both your boats are otherwise clean.”

“Where are you going to be?” Rick asks the question Finnick knows they’re all thinking, but he can’t answer Rick, not without telling him too much. And that’s the problem. He wants to continue, to tell them all everything, just like Mags said, but Rick is too hot-tempered, too likely to let something slip. Finnick saw that himself the other day, when his uncle spouted things that could get him killed if Finnick was truly the Capitol spy Rick believes him to be. He’ll just have to try to talk to his father alone later, make him understand the urgency.

“Tired,” Mags announces, sparing Finnick from having to come up with some kind of answer right away. Using Finnick’s shoulder for leverage, she stands, but then gestures for Rick to help her. “Take me… _house_ , boy,” she tells Rick and Finnick grins. It’s nice to have her call someone else “boy” for a change, especially since Rick has a good twenty years on him.

The others drift away, then, too, back up to the house, Jenna enlisting Kyle and Shandra to help her set up bedding and cots. Finnick asks his father to stay. He doesn’t say anything else until it’s just Annie, Thomas, and him on the beach.

“I take it there’s more,” Thomas says and Finnick nods.

“If my name isn’t called tomorrow, I’m going to volunteer.”

And it’s Annie’s turn to shake. “No,” she whispers. She tries to cover her ears with her hands, but Finnick won’t release his hold on her. Instead he pulls her closer, cradles her in his arms.

“ _Why?_ ” Thomas asks, the single word a plea to help him understand.

“Because the districts of Panem are a hair’s breadth from open rebellion. It’s not just here. District Eight already had an uprising just a few weeks ago. Districts Three and Twelve are as close to boiling over as we are in Four.”

“How the hell do you know that?”

Finnick hesitates; the need to keep his secrets close is a long ingrained thing in him. But he trusts Mags and he trusts his father. And Annie is Annie – he’s done keeping secrets from her. She doesn’t deserve that. She never did.

“Some people like to talk after sex and they feel guilty for using me. They say things they shouldn’t. And I have a very good memory.” Finnick gazes into the dying embers of the fire. In some ways, this conversation is harder than what he revealed about his life only a short time before. “We have a chance to stop the Games. To stop our children from being sent year after year to slaughter.”

His voice is neither cold nor detached when he looks Thomas in the eye and says, “I want the Hunger Games to end. And the only way to do that is to take down the Capitol. My friends believe this Quarter Quell is the spark they need to ignite the districts. I don’t know any of the details, but I do know that when whatever it is happens, all of you need to be well out to sea. For me to be able to do what I need to do, I need to know that you’re all safe. That Annie is safe. I’ll do my best to stay alive. I don’t want to die, but…” He shrugs. If he dies, he dies. He can’t let fear stop him.

“No one else can know any of this,” Finnick tells his father.

Thomas raises an eyebrow. “I don’t keep things of this magnitude from your mother.”

“Of course you don’t.” Finnick laughs humorlessly, then shakes his head. “No one _else_ , though.”

The three of them sit in silence. The fire collapses into itself, sending up a new shower of sparks, igniting new flames that flare and then begin to fade in turn. Finally Thomas stands. He picks up the blanket Mags left behind and shakes out most of the sand.

“I’m for bed. You’ve given me a hell of a lot to sleep on, son.” He drapes the blanket around Finnick and Annie. “Don’t stay out here too long.” He starts up the beach toward the house, but stops when Finnick speaks again.

“Dad. Promise me you’ll take care of Annie.”

“You know I will, Finnick. We won’t let anything happen to her. She’s part of the family.”

“Thank you.”

Finally, Finnick and Annie are alone on the beach. He tightens his arms around her, pulls the blanket closer, and they hold each other. There’s so much he wants to say to her, but he doesn’t know where to begin and so he says nothing, just buries his face in her hair.


	8. The Sound of the Poison Rain

**Chapter Eight - The Sound of the Poison Rain**

By the time the Odairs arrive at the city quay, boats are docked three deep, the ones further out tied off to their neighbors rather than to the piers themselves. Others simply dropped anchor out in the bay and rowed smaller boats in, pulling them up onto the beach. Kyle steers his seiner into the area reserved for the victors and their families, the only space available. There are only a couple of other boats there and Finnick recognizes them as belonging to Angel Banyan and Gil Keely. The voices of the thousands gathered in the town square two streets over blend together into a single white noise, loud enough to carry all the way to the quay.

Finnick heads up front, intending to help tie off to the dock, but Shandra stops him with a hand on his arm. “No way, little brother. You’ll mess up your pretty clothes.” She strokes his green silk shirt, unspoken sympathy in her eyes as she takes the rope from his hand and makes the leap from deck to pier. Between Shandra and Thomas, they make quick work of tying off.

Following his sister, Finnick leaps the gap, his dress shoes slipping a little on the damp wood when he lands. Once he’s stable, he holds out his hand to Annie. Placing her hand in his, she holds the folds of her green skirt in her other hand to keep it from getting dirty brushing against the pier. Even with his help, she stumbles, her high heeled shoe skidding, but Finnick catches her with an arm around her waist. As soon as she has her footing, she lets go of her skirt and instead leans into him while she reaches down to take off her shoes. Smiling up at him, she says, “I don’t want to wear these things anyway. They’re hard to walk in.”

The rest of the family files past the two of them, gathering at the end of the pier. On their way past, Shandra and Jenna both give Annie a quick hug; Shandra continues on with Rhys while Jenna pulls Finnick into her arms. She hugs him tightly before stretching up to kiss his cheek. Kyle punches Finnick in the arm; his wife touches Finnick’s shoulder briefly while their children merely nod. Thomas is the last to pass, clapping Finnick on the shoulder and nodding toward the white-uniformed Peacekeepers waiting land-side.

“We’ll see you in a few minutes, son,” he says, as if it were any other day, as if they were simply heading to the nearest tavern for a quick beer after a day of fishing. _If only…_

Half a dozen Peacekeepers wait to escort Finnick and Annie to the Justice Building. Beyond them stand an equal number of photographers and reporters. As the Odairs step from the pier onto dry land, the reporters descend on them like vultures. A television newscaster, her camera crew in tow, spots Finnick and Annie and shouts Finnick’s name and the rest of the flock abandons his family to cries of “Finnick! Finnick!” and “Look this way!” A man makes a run for the pier, camera at the ready, but a Peacekeeper armed with a machine gun holds him at bay.

There’s a flash as another photographer snaps a picture of Annie hiding her face against Finnick’s chest. He’s used to this sort of thing, but Annie isn’t. He wraps his arms around her and turns his back toward the vultures, putting his body between Annie and them. “It’s okay, Annie. They can’t hurt us.” He hopes. What can it matter now if he and Annie are no longer a secret?

She looks up at him and there is fear in her eyes. “I don’t want to go,” she whispers. “I don’t want you to go.”

He lifts his hands to cup her face. “Annie…” His voice breaks and she turns her head to kiss the palm of his hand.

“I know. We have to. I _know_ that, Finnick, but I can’t lose you.” There are tears in her eyes and in her voice. “I need you.”

“Annie, we talked about this. It’s something I have to do.” She nods her understanding even as the tears spill over. “I’ll do everything I can to come home to you.”

She drops her shoes to the dock and curls her hands around his wrists. Closing her eyes, still nodding, she says, “I know you will, Finnick, but what do I do if you can’t? What do I do?”

He blinks back tears of his own. “You go on. You _live_.” He swallows down the lump in his throat. “I promise you, Annie, I will come home to you if I can. But if I die, I need you to promise me that you’ll live your life. Live it for me, if you have to, until you can live it for yourself.”

She pulls back from him then, wipes the tears from her face. She’s not wearing any makeup, so there’s nothing to smear. She straightens. “I promise…” she starts, but her voice breaks. She tries again, stronger this time. “I promise that I’ll do my best to go on without you.” She meets his eyes and blinks back more tears, but her voice is still steady when she says, “But I can’t promise you I’ll succeed.”

The great bell that crowns the Justice Building begins to ring. Ten o’clock. Time for the reaping. A quick glance to the end of the pier shows Finnick that the Peacekeepers are getting restless. He turns back to Annie.

“I love you, Annie Cresta. Don’t you forget that.”

She stretches up to kiss him, salty and sweet. They pour everything they feel for each other into that kiss and then Annie breaks it off. She takes a step back, takes his hand and weaves her fingers with his. She steps past him, pulling him along beside her and they walk hand in hand toward their waiting escort, one of whom is halfway between them and the others, coming to collect them. It isn’t until they’re in the square, both preceded and followed by a pair of armed Peacekeepers, that Finnick notices Annie left her shoes behind on the pier.

As they move through the crowd in the square, people stepping aside to let their party pass, Finnick hears Annie whispering. “My name is Annie Cresta. I am twenty-two years old. I am the victor of the 70th Hunger Games. I love Finnick Odair and he loves me. My name is Annie Cresta…”

“Oh, Annie.” She looks up at him and her eyes are wide as she tries to keep the tears from falling again. In spite of the growing heat of the day, her hand in his is ice cold; he lifts it and brushes a kiss against the inside of her wrist. “We’ll get through this,” he tells her, but he can see she doesn’t believe him. He doesn’t believe it himself. His eyes slide away from hers and he drops their hands back down between them.

Their Peacekeeper escort continues to push through the crowd. Finnick and Annie are the last to arrive, no surprise since the Odairs were the last boat to dock. When it comes time for them to part and go to the separate roped-off areas, male and female, Finnick can’t let go of Annie’s hand. If anything, his grip on her tightens.

Phineas LaSalle, the Capitol’s representative to District 4 since before Finnick’s Games, stands on the stage in all his gray-and-white feathery glory along with the mayor and her family, much more subdued in funereal black, a show of support for the victors that Finnick didn’t expect. A huge screen behind them on the stage shows three views, one of Finnick and a barefoot Annie holding hands, surrounded by Peacekeepers, the other two the small areas for the male and female victors cordoned off by velvet ropes.

And still Finnick can’t let Annie go. She finally turns to him and strokes his cheek with her free hand. “I love you, Finnick Odair,” she tells him and then pulls her hand from his and walks, straight and tall, head held high, to join Mags and Angel. He doesn’t move until she turns back around on the other side of the rope and gives him a somewhat watery smile. One of his escort gestures with his machine gun toward the other male victors of District 4 and Finnick walks as steadily as he can to join them.

A Peacekeeper with a rifle slung over her shoulder unhooks the rope for Finnick to pass, refastening it behind him. Martin Perch holds out his hand and he and Finnick shake; Finnick repeats the gesture with Azimuth Pike and Gil Keely. For the first time in weeks he thinks about Jackson Hull, wonders what happened to his family.

And then LaSalle is stepping up to the microphone on the stage above and the anthem of the Hunger Games, the soundtrack of Finnick’s nightmares, begins to play. Finnick looks out over the crowd, searching for his family. Many of the men and women in the square wear black armbands, a traditional symbol of mourning for District 4 when the mourner isn’t part of the deceased’s family. The armbands are just as much a sign of support as the mayor’s family all dressed in black and it surprises Finnick.

His father shouts his name and Finnick looks in that direction. They’re just the other side of the no man’s land between the victors and the people of District 4. Armed Peacekeepers, some with arms outstretched and others with weapons at the ready hold the crowd of spectators at bay.

“I didn’t know there were this many Peacekeepers in the entire district,” Martin says.

Finnick glances over at him. “There aren’t. These are imports.”

“Too bad we couldn’t refuse the shipment.” Finnick laughs and looks at Martin more sharply. He looks as though he hasn’t slept in days and Finnick recalls that he has a wife, but no children. His gaze drifts across the way to Annie and he wonders how things might be different now if he and Annie had married. But Snow would never have allowed it.

The anthem ends and Phineas LaSalle clears his throat, the sound echoing from the speakers surrounding the square. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he begins in his birdlike voice, “welcome to this historic occasion: the selection of District Four’s tributes to the third Quarter Quell, the 75th Hunger Games. Shall we begin?”

He always refers to it as a “selection of tributes,” never calls it what it is: a reaping. He pauses and looks out over the crowd as though waiting for a response, just as he has done for every reaping for at least the last fifteen years, in spite of the perpetual lack of response. This time someone does answer him, although Finnick is sure it’s not the response he anticipated.

“Fuck you, LaSalle! Go back to the Capitol where you belong!” Finnick recognizes his Uncle Rick’s voice. A few more voices scattered throughout the crowd add to the sentiment and LaSalle’s face flushes dark beneath the white down covering his skin.

LaSalle clears his throat again and raises a sheaf of paper, reads from it first the Treaty of Treason and then the terms of the third Quarter Quell. It takes an eternity. The sun rises in the sky and the temperature with it. The only things that keep them all from melting are the clouds that block the direct light of the sun.

When LaSalle is finally done with his reading, he looks over at a boy about Rhys’ age who carries to him a fish bowl containing four slips of paper. The Capitol rep reaches into it and pulls out a slip, unfolds it.

“The male tribute for District Four to the 75th Hunger Games is…” He pauses for a cheesy recorded drum roll. “… Finnick Odair.”

For all Finnick was anticipating them, the words are a punch in the gut. He can’t breathe and for a moment all he hears is the sudden roaring in his ears. He thinks he might collapse, embarrass himself, but then a piercing scream cuts through the static in his brain as Annie shrieks his name. He turns toward her, sees Angel catch her before she can run to Finnick. Mags says something to her and Annie nods, stops struggling to break free from Angel, who lets her go. Annie straightens and her eyes meet Finnick’s. Even from so far away, he sees her body trembling, that she’s a hair’s breadth from bolting. Her lips move as she repeats the word “no” and what he thinks must be his name, over and over.

There are no volunteers to take his place, not that he expected any. Finnick sucks in as much air as his lungs can take and walks up the steps to the stage, holding onto the rail to keep from stumbling as he exhales. He wants nothing more than to run to Annie, but instead he takes his place beside LaSalle, who smiles and shakes his hand. Finnick doesn’t return the smile and pulls his hand from the other man’s as soon as he can. LaSalle looks as ridiculous now as he did the last time Finnick shared the stage with him, only shorter. It occurs to Finnick that might be because Finnick himself is much taller now than he was ten years ago. Finnick turns to face the crowd, but everything in him focuses on Annie. He doesn’t care if the cameras pick up on that or not.

The young man brings LaSalle another bowl and he fishes out another slip of paper, reads it to the waiting crowd. “The female tribute for District Four to the 75th Hunger Games is…” Again the cheesy drum roll. “… Anwyn Cresta.”

Annie begins to scream again, and this time she doesn’t stop. She falls to her knees, her hands over her ears, all the while still screaming. Mags steps forward, leaning on her cane, and shouts in a surprisingly strong voice, “Volunteer!”

“Damn it, Mags,” Finnick whispers, torn between gratitude and horror as a Peacekeeper steps forward to help Mags walk to the steps and then up to the stage.

“It seems we have a volunteer,” LaSalle says as Mags’ escort leads her to stand beside Finnick. “Ladies and gentlemen, in Anwyn Cresta’s place, I present to you Margreta Moreno as your district tribute to the 75th Hunger Games.” LaSalle looks and sounds a bit unsettled as Annie’s screams continue through his announcement, echoing around the square.

And then Annie jumps to her feet and sprints past Angel for the stairs. A Peacekeeper snags her on the way past, pulls her off the steps, but she breaks away from him, pushes him back and is halfway up the stairs, shouting for Finnick. Another Peacekeeper joins the first and they lift her off her feet and carry her back to Angel, kicking and screaming.

When the Peacekeepers lay their rough hands on Annie, Finnick is unable to stand still any longer. He runs across the stage and leaps down the stairs, running for Annie as more Peacekeepers pour in, some to hold back the spectators nearest the stage, his family in particular, and others to catch Finnick and try to drag him back. Before he reaches Annie, she breaks away, still shrieking, from her captors, but one of them tackles her before she can get very far. When she’s on the ground, a Peacekeeper lifts his rifle and brings the butt of it down against Annie’s head with a sickening sound, clearly audible over the noise of the crowd. Her screams stop.

Those in the crowd near enough to see what’s happening first hand are in an uproar and the Peacekeepers scramble to prevent their outrage from spreading into a full-fledged riot. As one group hustles the victors from the roped off area through the main door of the Justice Building, another herds the people remaining on the stage through another door on a second floor balcony. Someone cuts the camera feed to the television screens around the square.

Finnick is no longer capable of coherent thought as he charges the man who hit Annie, knocking him into the corner of the stage. Two more Peacekeepers block him, one of them striking him in the face with his gun, but he ignores them and runs toward Annie, lying unmoving on the ground, her face bloody. More blood trickles into her hair. He’s screaming her name when the Peacekeepers grab him by the arms and legs and carry him bodily into the Justice Building. He catches a glimpse of the screen behind the stage, which shows nothing of what’s happening to him or Annie; the only image reflected there is the symbol of the Hunger Games superimposed over the seal of Panem, the whole thing emblazoned with a large “75.”

They toss Finnick into a windowless room inside the Justice Building and lock the door. He throws himself against it, pounding on it and shouting Annie’s name. All he sees, all he can think of is her lying there bleeding, so pale and still.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed when he finally stops hitting the door. No one comes to let him out. There’s blood on his sleeve where the half-healed gash in his arm tore open again, either during his brief fight with the Peacekeepers or here in this room, struggling against the door. There’s more blood on the front of his shirt where a cut on his cheekbone dripped. He slides down the door and sits with his back to it, staring up at the lights in the ceiling until he can’t see anymore. “Annie…”

More time passes with no way to track it. Eventually a key turns in the lock behind him and he pushes away from the door as it opens. He stands as Head Peacekeeper Leto steps into the room. Her eyes travel over his body, taking in the disheveled and bloody mess.

“You created quite the stir at the selection ceremony, Mr. Odair,” she observes.

“Is she dead?” His voice comes out as a croak, his throat dry from all the shouting.

“Miss Cresta? I don’t know.”

“Where is she?” His voice is stronger.

“I don’t know that either, Mr. Odair.”

So unfailingly polite. Finnick wants to snap her neck. “Isn’t it your job to know?”

Leto steps into the room, careful to stay between him and the door. “It’s my job to see to it you reach the train station. Either unconscious or under your own power; it’s your choice.” She has a stun gun in her hand. “Personally, I’d prefer you walk. You’re too big for me to carry.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage.”

“Turn around, Mr. Odair.” He turns his back to her. “Give me your hands.” He complies with that order, too, as a form of despair sets in. Using a pair of plastic zip ties, she binds his wrists behind his back, then steps away and holds the door open. “After you.”

Finnick walks through the door and a pair of armed Peacekeepers meet him as he steps through; they along with Leto take him to a waiting limousine. Mags and Martin Perch are inside. Neither of them wear restraints.

Finnick turns to Leto. “Can we remove these?”

“No, we can’t.” She takes a step back and holds the car door open for him. “I’m sure you’ll manage.”

Resigned, Finnick bends and climbs awkwardly into the limo, settles in as best he can, sitting on his hands beside Mags, across from Martin. Mags pulls Finnick in against her and pushes his head down on her shoulder, keeps her arm around him. She kisses the top of his head as the door slams shut and, feeling like a frightened fourteen-year-old again, he blinks back sudden tears.

After the limo pulls into traffic, Finnick pulls away from Mags and sits up straight. He asks Martin, “What are you doing here?”

“Apparently, I’m your mentor.” He doesn’t look any happier to be there than Finnick feels.

For the next few minutes, the only sounds are those of the road beneath the limo’s tires, then Finnick breaks the silence again. “I didn’t get to say goodbye.” He was too busy having a meltdown.

But Martin tells him, “Neither did we. The Peacekeepers hustled us into the Justice Building and then disappeared until they came to take us to the car.”

Mags snorts, the sound more eloquent than it should be. “Didn’t want… _riot_ ,” she says.

“Or an uprising,” Finnick mutters as they pull into the train station, more resolved than ever to see things through.

xXx

Annie comes to hours later, disoriented, frightened, and alone. She’s lying on someone’s couch, her feet on the arm of it and her head at an uncomfortable angle in the corner formed by the other arm and the back. Her head hurts. Her mouth and eyes are painfully dry and there’s an odd metallic taste in her mouth. She thinks they might have drugged her, but then again, it could just be a side-effect of her thirst.

She has no idea where she is, but she does know where she isn’t. She’s not in her own home on Victors’ Island, not in Finnick’s parents’ home where she lived for the past few weeks. She’s not even in the District 4 Justice Building, which is where she should be, she thinks, since she was reaped again this morning. But then she remembers Mags stepping forward to volunteer in her place. Old Mags who’d had a stroke, who was once Finnick’s mentor, who helped him to survive his games just as he later helped Annie. Mags, who Finnick loves like she’s his grandmother.

Annie sits up suddenly and a wave of pain immediately hits her, centered in her head and radiating outward through her whole body. Nausea quickly follows, so strong all she can do is lean forward and vomit helplessly on the floor in front of her. When she’s finished, she can’t stop shaking and the taste in her mouth is no longer metallic. She tries to spit out the acrid aftertaste, but it won’t go away. There’s nothing she can use to rinse her mouth.

The room sways and at first Annie thinks it’s because of lingering dizziness, but then the rhythmic noise in the background comes into focus. She’s on a moving train. She hates trains. The last time she was on one was for her Victory Tour.

It was winter and the train was going from the Capitol to the final stop of the tour back home in District 4. She had just finished prep, hair and makeup, and was headed back to her compartment to get dressed, but she got turned around and went the wrong way. Instead of moving from car to car toward the front of the train, she headed toward the back.

It wasn’t the first time she’d gone between cars. It wasn’t so bad, even when the train was moving. There were flexible barriers between her and the outside in the spaces between cars, keeping out the cold, giving her the illusion of safety.

But then she went through the door of that last car and there was no barrier between her and the chasm they crossed. There was nothing but freezing wind and sleet, icy metal beneath her thin shoes, and empty nothingness to either side with what had to be at least a hundred yard drop straight down.

She was terrified. She turned back to the door, but either it had locked behind her or it was otherwise jammed shut. She tried to pull it open, but it wouldn’t budge and when her hands slipped from the slick handle, she nearly fell. As she pounded on the door, shouting for help, the train went through a tunnel and she was plunged from icy twilight to full darkness, the only light that which escaped through the windows of the cars further toward the front of the train. The wind wasn’t much reduced, but at least the sleet couldn’t find her.

Slipping into panic, she screamed, holding onto the frame of the car and pounding on the door as hard as she could. It seemed like she clung there for hours, but she found out later she was only there for five minutes or so. Phineas LaSalle, the Capitol representative, was the one who finally heard her and came to her rescue. He got her back in and gave her his suit jacket until he could get her back to the prep car, where her team made a fuss over her, not even getting mad at her for ruining all their previous work.

Annie hates trains.

She looks around the compartment she’s in. There’s a window on the wall to her right and through it she sees the dying rays of the sun as the train races north, toward the Capitol, and she thinks that what Finnick feared the most has come to pass. He’s done so much to keep her away from the Capitol. She doesn’t want to think about that, so instead she concentrates on the sunset, magenta and salmon and gold with deep purple shot through. It paints the arid landscape that is District 4 outside of the populated coastal areas in its vivid hues. If her head didn’t hurt so badly, if she wasn’t so frightened, she might think it was beautiful, the view from that window. As it is, all she feels is sick.

The leather couch on which she sits is overstuffed and velvet soft. There’s a small table and a chair that matches the couch on the other side of the compartment. She hoped to spot a previously hidden pitcher of water or maybe an intercom she could use to call someone to help her, but there’s nothing else. There’s only one door.

Standing, she sways along with the motion of the train, steadies herself with a hand on the cloth covered wall. She steps around the mess in front of her and walks slowly to the door, feeling as though she might be sick again if the spinning doesn’t stop. When she reaches it, she finds it locked from the outside. She pounds on it and shouts “Hello!” but quickly stops as the pain in her head momentarily overwhelms her again. She manages not to vomit as she returns to the couch and drops back down on the end furthest from the pool of sick on the floor.

Annie curls her legs up under her. There are wrinkles in her silk blouse and there’s a smear of dirt down the front and side of her skirt from her struggles earlier that day with the Peacekeepers. Her feet are bare and she vaguely remembers leaving her shoes on the public pier in town. They’re no great loss.

Cotton fills her head and the left side of her face burns. When she touches the center of the fire, right above her left eye, her fingers come away sticky with half-dried blood. Her whole face feels funny, her skin stretched too tight, as though it will crack if she changes her expression. Her forehead is hot to the touch, although she doesn’t think she has a fever.

The train sways wildly for a moment and Annie pushes herself into the seat, as far into the corner of it as she can. The motion steadies again and she starts to relax. After a time, she begins to sing. The song is the same one Finnick sang on the beach the night before, the one he wrote for her. She sings it over and over until her voice becomes hoarse.

No one comes to her compartment. There’s nothing she can use to clean the vomit from the floor or to clean the sticky blood from her face. The locked door traps her in the room, so she doesn’t move from her spot. There’s no point.

The lights in the compartment are too bright and she closes her eyes to block them out, but that brings with it more memories, of the darkness of mountain tunnels and of flooded caves in flooded arenas. The train sways rhythmically, hypnotically. Silent tears dry on her face along with the blood and she sinks beneath the waves to welcoming darkness and a temporary peace.

 

End of Part One - District Four


	9. Alone in the Wind and the Rain

**PART TWO – THE CAPITOL**

**Chapter Nine – Alone in the Wind and the Rain**

Finnick lies on his bed in his quarters on the fourth floor of the Training Center, the same rooms, the same bed he uses whenever he’s in the Capitol. It was always easier to stay here than to find an apartment of his own, like Johanna, or to stay at a hotel open to the public and with people constantly around. Either option would require additional “work” from him to pay for it, so he might as well stay in a place he was already paying for, at least in part. He still had some small amount of privacy, if he ignored the presence of cameras and listening devices, easy enough to do, since he never met anyone here or brought anyone home with him. Any place he rented would be bugged within a matter of hours anyway.

The train had pulled into the Hunger Games complex a few hours before and because Finnick was so much trouble already, he was hustled straight off to the fourth floor and locked in his room like a rebellious teenager. _Not so much a teenager_ , he thinks, smiling, _but most definitely rebellious._

Lying on his back, hands cupped under his head, he stares up at the ceiling, watching the interplay of lights that dance across it, reflected there from the fountain in the courtyard below. He knows he should try to sleep, but there’s no way that he can. He feels the nightmares scratching at the back of his brain, just waiting for him to close his eyes. And every time he does close his eyes, he sees Annie struck down by that Peacekeeper’s gun, falling endlessly. He hears her screams echoing across the town square, cut short, and he is helpless, unable to go to her, unable to move at all. Able only to watch her bleed as she lies in the dirt. Just like his brother-in-law, years before, his throat cut even as Finnick begged Snow to let him go.

_Shadow. Light. Shadow. Light. Intertwining, wrapping around each other. Mesmerizing. The loamy smell of green and growing things…_

Vines creep up from the muddy ground beneath Finnick’s bed, twining around the metal legs, a hissing susurrus, reaching higher, encircling Finnick’s ankles, his wrists, binding him solidly in place. At the end of the bed, Snow watches him, eyes glittering as he holds Annie unconscious in his arms, one hand splayed across her stomach. She dangles there, her body limp, and Snow smiles his blood-streaked smile at Finnick over her shoulder, blood dripping onto her jaw and neck. Finnick fights against the vines holding him down. He becomes more and more frantic as they tighten, cutting off circulation, slicing through skin and into bone. _Shouldn’t there be more pain?_ he thinks. _Is it the drugs? Did he give me something again?_ Snow licks at the blood on Annie’s skin, leaving a trail of crimson from her ear to her chin; from the angle, it looks as though he slit her throat with his tongue.

With a shout, Finnick sits up, eyes wide, limbs tangled in bedding. His breathing is ragged and he stares into the darkness, willing his heart to settle back into its normal pace. He laughs, the sound shaky. “And here I thought I wouldn’t be able to sleep.” He doesn’t even try to lay back down, just sits huddled into himself in the middle of the bed.

The room grows lighter as he sits, the early morning sun just starting to brighten the sky outside his window. There is a knock on his door, which quickly opens and his stylist, Raphael, enters, smiling broadly. “Good morning, Finnick!” His dark eyes dance along with his cheery smile and Finnick contemplates throwing something at him, but instead he just stares at Rafe, no smile or greeting in return, and the man’s smile fades. He’s used to a friendly Finnick, but Finnick can’t bring himself to make the effort. He has too little time left to play games with what remains.

Stepping further into the bedroom, Rafe takes a closer look at Finnick, at the bruise over half his face, the cut on his cheekbone from when the Peacekeepers took him down. The man blinks in surprise at the other bruises over Finnick’s body, both faded and fresh, at the bloody shirt tossed carelessly to the floor near the bed. Finnick watches the connections form in the man's head, all but hears the gears grinding.

Rafe whistles. “Oh, Finnick! You need to be more careful who you go out with!”

It’s Finnick’s turn to be surprised. And confused. “What?”

“I know it doesn’t happen that often,” Rafe continues hastily. “I don’t mean to question your judgment, Finnick, but I just hate to see you come home so beaten up by someone you trusted. Maybe you should take the time to run background checks on them or something. I’m sure our security here would help you with that.”

Finnick opens his mouth to answer but closes it again. _Can he really not know?_ Aloud he says, “Rafe, I’m not the one who chooses who I ‘go out’ with.”

“What do you mean? I don’t understand.”

“That’s becoming obvious.” Rafe isn’t a good enough actor to be lying now.

“So what happened?”

“I was reaped?” There is a bitter twist to the word.

Rafe frowns. “Reaped?”

Finnick flops forward, holding his head in his hands. He should have known Rafe wouldn’t understand the reference, just as he doesn’t seem to understand that Finnick’s life isn’t his own. The man isn’t stupid, but he is clueless. Of _course_ , Finnick wants to sleep with anything that moves. Of _course_ , the people of the districts are content with their lot, living happy, productive lives in service to the Capitol.

Finnick straightens up and faces Rafe squarely. “That’s what it’s called, Rafe. Not ‘selected.’ Not ‘picked.’ Not ‘chosen.’ _Reaped._ Every year on Reaping Day our children are _reaped_ and then sent to be slaughtered for the entertainment of the Capitol’s citizens.” The term was used on the card for the third Quarter Quell, and he’s sure it’s even called Reaping Day here in the Capitol; Rafe should be familiar with it, but it’s just another sign of how clueless he can be. If he’s not smacked in the face with something, it doesn’t exist.

Rafe stares at Finnick as though he just sprouted a second head. The older man is upset, giving Finnick such a reproachful look that Finnick almost laughs, reminded of an old hound dog his Uncle Luis used to own. Rafe doesn’t say anything right away, just continues to watch Finnick.

“What do you mean you don’t choose who you go out with?” Rafe eventually asks, warily, as though he’s afraid of the answer.

“I’m sure you can figure that out.” An awkward silence follows, which Rafe finally interrupts by offering Finnick a stack of clothes.

“Phineas asked me to bring you something to wear. He wouldn’t listen when I told him that you already have clothes here.” He shrugs. “Breakfast will be at ten o’clock in the dining room.”

Finnick makes no move to take the clothes and Rafe sets them carefully at the end of the bed, backing away as though he thinks Finnick might physically attack him. Finnick can't help but wonder if the man has finally realized that he isn’t some doll to be dressed up, has maybe even remembered that he’s a potentially dangerous killer.

“After breakfast,” Rafe continues, “there’s a strategy meeting with the rest of the District Four team and then you’ve an appointment in Remake…” His eyes focus on the cut on Finnick’s cheek.

“All right, Rafe, I’ll shower and head to the dining room,” Finnick concedes.

“Do you need me to wait for you?”

“I don’t need you to hold my hand, Rafe. I know where the dining room is.” He doesn’t particularly care if he offends Rafe, who finally retreats to the safety of the hallway.

Leaving the stack of clothes on the bed, Finnick slips out from under the sheets and heads into the shower. He strips off his underwear and steps into the stall, turns up the water as hot as he can stand it. He doesn’t set the timer. Resting his forehead against the shower wall, he empties his mind of everything and concentrates on the feel of the hot water, needle sharp against his skin.

xXx

The water that surrounds Annie is shot through with diaphanous red and orange clouds that clash horribly with the gray-green of the murky lake in which she floats. She’s not light enough to be buoyed to the surface, not heavy enough to sink to the bottom; she doesn’t exist. The wispy clouds of color swirl and dissipate almost as quickly as they form. They don’t bother Annie nearly as much as the streaks of lightning that shoot through her at rhythmic intervals. A particularly harsh one strikes at her left eye, leaving behind searing pain.

Annie opens her eyes. She is still on the train, still curled up as small as she can manage in the corner of the couch, although the compartment no longer sways and the song of metal wheels on metal tracks has ceased. She hears voices outside the window through which sunlight streams; the sunlight combines with the harsh lights overhead to make her feel as though beams of light are tearing at her eyes. She blinks back tears and slowly uncurls, stiffened muscles protesting. The spot above her left eye throbs in time with her pulse.

As thirsty as she was the night before, it’s worse now. Her tongue feels swollen and it’s stuck to the roof of her mouth. Worse even than that, though, is the need to relieve herself. She already threw up on the carpet, she doesn’t want to urinate on it, too. Tears sting the backs of her eyes as she forces herself past the pain in her head to look for something she can pee into.

Behind the only chair she finds a small cupboard beneath an equally small countertop that she didn’t notice the night before, hidden as it is behind a cloth divider, pulled aside to make the compartment seem larger. Inside the cupboard is a bottle filled with amber liquid – a quick sniff confirms alcohol – along with half a dozen glasses, a lidded bucket for ice, and a plastic trashcan.

“You’d think if they provide alcohol, there’d be better access to a bathroom,” she observes aloud, but the sound of her own voice sets her head to aching. _Of course, most of the people who use this room probably aren’t locked in._

After making use of the trashcan, she feels somewhat better although her head still throbs and she’s sick to her stomach. Dropping down into the chair, she folds her legs up under her body and watches the clouds float by outside the window, fluffy white against brilliant blue. If Finnick were here, they’d challenge each other to find shapes in the clouds –a seahorse or a dragon – but he isn’t here and the only thing she sees in the clouds is the shape of a dolphin caught in a net.

A few minutes later a screeching of metal on metal invades as another train pulls in nearby. Annie gingerly lowers her feet to the floor, careful not to kick over the trashcan. She sways when she stands and has to steady herself on the arm of the chair, but once she feels stable enough, she goes to look out the window.

There are train tracks that narrow and disappear as they lead away into the distance and what looks like steam rises from the engine of the train that just pulled in across the way. A man with short brown hair catches Annie’s attention as he steps down from the new arrival. Dressed in simple black and carrying a pack slung over his shoulder, he stands out amongst all the bright colors and flashing jewels, the sequins and feathers swirling around him.

He steps to the side and looks around him as more people stream out of the train, some laughing, carrying on conversations, others silent and looking as though they’d rather be someplace else. Like Annie. Annie recognizes a small, dark-haired woman dressed in red who jumps from the train, but she can’t recall her name. The woman nearly collides with a man darting past the car at the same time, looking down at a sheet of paper in his hand. The woman in red runs two steps after him and gives him a shove, sending him careening into a planter full of roses. An armed Peacekeeper follows closely behind, catches her arm with one hand, but that doesn’t stop her from shouting at the man who nearly ran her over.

Annie slaps her hand against the window then and shouts for help, ignoring the pain that slices through her skull, but no one even looks her way. She steps away from the window, blinking back tears from the pain, and reaches for the metal ice bucket, but before she can use it on the window to hopefully make a noise loud enough to be noticed, if not actually break the glass, she hears something outside the door of her compartment. Annie turns toward it, but her head continues spinning even after her body has stopped and she almost throws up again. She pushes the nausea back down, uses the wall for support as she makes her way to the door.

“Hello?” she calls out. “Is someone there?” _Maybe someone heard me after all._ She pounds her fist on the door, then reaches for the handle, but it doesn’t move now anymore than it did last night. It’s still locked. She rattles it anyway, just to make sure. “Please let me out!” No one answers and there are no more noises from within the train, only the muffled sounds that still drift in through the window behind her.

She leans her shoulder against the door, then turns so her back is against it as she sinks down to the floor. Her pale green skirt pools around her legs; she restlessly plucks at it, creating peaks and valleys, shadows and highlights, and tries not to cry. “Finnick,” she whispers. He has to be here somewhere. She’s in the Capitol and she thinks this might be the same train station they pulled into before the car took them to the Training Center for her Games, but she isn’t really sure of anything right now.

If this is the same place, if she’s in the Capitol for the Games, then why have they left her here? Why is she alone? She has to wonder if maybe she’s only here as an afterthought. Maybe they didn’t know what to do with her, so they put her on the train with the others and then forgot about her.

Someone will come, she tells herself. The trains used for the Games are also used for other things. Now that the tributes are in the Capitol, the trains will be released. They’ll be cleaned and put back into regular service. Eventually, someone will unlock that door. But how long will eventually be?

xXx

After his shower, Finnick dresses in the clothes Rafe left for him. He didn’t bother drying his hair, other than soaking up most of the excess water with a towel, so it’s still wet, leaving darker spots on his brown shirt. He is pleased the shirt isn’t made of mesh, though, nor are the jeans skin tight. Instead of looking like a Capitol freak, the image in the mirror is simply that of a young man who hasn’t had enough sleep. And has maybe been in a bar fight. He grins and heads off to breakfast, feeling a little better than he did before. Not good, that’s impossible without knowing where Annie is, if she’s okay, but better.

It’s well after ten and he knows he’s late, but he can’t force himself to care. The shower helped him to feel more human, less like a piece of meat, but it did nothing to change his attitude toward the Capitol or the Games. It’d take a hell of a shower to do that. The last to arrive, he stands in the doorway and looks at the others in the room.

Martin and LaSalle, Mags, a woman Finnick assumes is her stylist, and Rafe are all on one side of the large table and the two prep teams are huddled together on the opposite side. Finnick wonders why the prep teams are all in a little group, staring at him, looking vaguely worried. They remind him of the plovers that scurry across the beaches at home, jumping and running away from the slightest movement, rather than flying away to safety. Rafe, looking guilty, carefully avoids eye contact with Finnick.

Mostly empty glasses and plates containing little more than crumbs indicate that he missed breakfast. Snagging an apple from a bowl of fruit on a sideboard, Finnick takes the empty seat to Rafe’s left and leans his chair back to balance on its hind legs, hooking an ankle around the leg of the table. “Don’t let me interrupt,” he says and takes a bite of his apple, the sweetness exploding pleasantly in his mouth. It’s almost too sweet; the sugar rush and the lack of food since breakfast the day before leaves him momentarily light-headed.

LaSalle turns toward Rafe. “You were saying?”

With a furtive glance at Finnick, Rafe shakes his head. “I was finished.”

Finnick settles his chair firmly on the floor, bringing him closer to Rafe. “Coward,” he whispers as the others talk around them. Rafe fidgets in his seat and Finnick nods slightly toward the prep teams. “What did you say to them?”

Rafe leans in and whispers back, “I told them what you said about reaping.” He still won’t meet Finnick’s gaze. “I might have mentioned how much you hate us.”

“I don’t hate you, Rafe,” Finnick tells him. Maybe he should, but he doesn’t. Sometimes it’s easy for Finnick to forget that Rafe has sent him off to his own form of slaughter time after time.

Shaking his head, Rafe’s voice rises in protest. “I heard it in your voice, Finnick.” When his fellow stylist looks his way, Rafe drops his voice to a whisper again. “And after what you told me? How could you not?” His gaze drops to his half-eaten eggs. “How can you even look at me?”

Finnick studies his stylist for a moment. In his own way, Rafe cares about Finnick, which is why the man is so uncomfortable now. “The fact that you’re bothered by it is how,” he tells him. “You’re more worried about me than you are about being out of a job in a few days.” Which is why the Raphael Simons of the world are worth far more than the Coriolanus Snows.

“Oh.” Rafe blinks. “I hadn’t thought about that.” He finally meets Finnick’s eyes. “But you could win again.”

Shaking his head, Finnick pushes his chair back to balance on two legs once more, bracing a hand against the table and letting his own legs swing free. “I’m not sure I want to win, Rafe. It would mean killing my friends.” Neither man says anything more after that.

The conversation that continued around them swims into focus as Martin observes mildly, “I really think, Phineas, that we should do something else for the opening ceremonies. Something different. Maybe something… Oh, I don’t know.” He glances at the two stylists. “Dignified?”

Finnick drops his chair again with a loud thud and both stylists flinch. “Please tell me it’s not jellyfish.”

With a straight face, Martin tells him, “It’s definitely not jellyfish.” He takes a sip from a glass of water. “Jellyfish might be an improvement.”

Finnick glares at Rafe who flushes and his eyes slide away from Finnick toward Mags, but then he can’t look at her either. “Nets?” Finnick asks. “You’re going to dress us up in fishing nets, aren’t you?” Every year it’s either some kind of sea creature or something to do with fishing, neither of which is necessarily bad – there are so many things that could be done with a sea motif – except for the Capitol’s penchant for displaying as much skin as possible.

“Well, it’s not _just_ fishing nets,” Rafe says, looking very uncomfortable.

“There’ll be iridescent shells and bits of ribbon to evoke seaweed, too,” Mags’ stylist adds. Finnick bends over and pounds his head on the table, but only once. He doesn’t need any more bruises; even if they will be wiped away in remake, they still hurt now. He looks back up at Rafe.

“That _shit_ is bad enough on kids, Rafael. Neither of us is a child anymore. Can’t we have a little dignity?” He deliberately uses the same concept as Martin when he introduced the subject.

“I’m sorry. It’s too late to redesign.” Finnick’s fledgling good will toward his stylist evaporates.

Further discussion is interrupted by a knock at the door, which one of the servants answers. There’s a quiet conversation between the servant and the person on the other side of the door, then she approaches the table and says something to LaSalle. Their Capitol representative stands and folds his napkin, placing it on the table beside his mostly empty plate.

“If you’ll all excuse me, I’m needed at the train station.” He gives no further explanation, just follows the servant out the door.

An uncomfortable silence falls after LaSalle leaves, and then Mags snorts. “Worried… _my_ dig..., boy, don’t. No one looking… _me_.” Finnick drops his forehead back to the table and covers his head with his arms.

xXx

Annie doesn’t know how much time passes before someone knocks lightly on the door behind her. It vibrates through her, sets her head to pounding again. She crab-walks a couple of feet away and turns to stare at the door.

A man’s voice, muffled. “Hello?”

She pushes to her feet, overbalances, then steadies herself with a palm against the door. “Please don’t leave me here.” She’s not sure if it’s loud enough for the man to hear, but then there’s a key turning in the lock and she steps back just as the door opens in toward her.

The man in black, the one she saw outside, stands there with a woman in a gray uniform; she holds a ring with dozens of keys in her hand. The man frowns at Annie, his eyes fixed on her bloody face, and she takes another step back. But then he turns to the woman.

“Find a medic and bring them back here.” He hands her something. “Hurry.” The woman nods and runs off and he steps into the compartment. Taking Annie gently by the hand, he leads her back to the couch, his nose wrinkling at the smell of urine and hours-old vomit. “You poor child.” It surprises her when he calls her “child”; he doesn’t seem to be too many years her senior.

He drops his pack to the floor well away from the mess and waits until Annie sinks down onto the cushions, then walks over to the window and works a set of controls so cleverly hidden in the frame that Annie never knew they were there. He opens the window, letting in cleaner air from outside. It doesn’t open far enough that she could have escaped through it, but she might have received help sooner if she knew about those controls, if she hadn’t assumed the window simply didn’t open.

The man returns to Annie and crouches down until his eyes are level with hers. She stares at his eyes, green, flecked with gold, reaches a finger to trace the gold paint that lines them – it just matches the gold flecks in his irises – but then she pulls back without touching him. She doesn’t know him, doesn’t know how he might react, and this is the Capitol. But he smiles at her and reaches down to pull something out of his pack.

“You have kind eyes,” she whispers, mostly to herself, but still loud enough for him to hear.

“Do I?” He smiles at her again and splashes water from a bottle onto a scrap of blue and purple cloth that she thinks might be a scarf; both bottle and cloth are things he pulled from his pack. He gently wipes at the dried blood on her forehead and around her eye. “What happened to you?”

“I was reaped.” She closes her eyes, begins to relax a little at the man’s gentle touch. “But then Mags volunteered, so I don’t know why I’m here.”

“Oh! District Four. You’re Annie Cresta.”

She nods, but that starts the room to swaying again. Everything goes white at the edges of her vision and she reaches up to hold her head still. He cups her chin in one hand and continues to wipe the blood from her face with the other. “I’m Cinna.”

Annie smiles, recognizing the name. “You made District Twelve burn.” She hates the Games and everything about them, but still the costumes he designed the year before for District 12 were beautiful and memorable because of it, rather than being memorable because they were so awful, which is usually the case.

He blinks at her observation. “Something like that,” he says with a bemused smile.

A commotion outside the door announces the arrival of a medic dressed in white, a man and woman in gray, one of whom is the woman who brought Cinna to her earlier, and Phineas LaSalle, who Annie recognizes from her Games five years before. The woman sets the man in gray to cleaning up the mess on the floor.

Annie whispers to him, “I’m sorry.” He says nothing, just looks at her for a moment and then returns to his work, but the woman gives her a tiny shake of her head.

“There’s no need to apologize,” she says. “It’s his job.”

“That doesn’t make it any more pleasant,” Annie replies.

But the woman merely shrugs. “He’s an Avox,” she tells Annie, as though it’s no different than being a dog or a broom. Annie frowns, notices Cinna watching her and wonders suddenly if she said or did something wrong, but then the medic is in her face, poking at her head and she can’t bite back a whimper.

“Hurts, does it?” the man asks, but he’s more gentle after that. He shines a light in her eyes, and that hurts, too. After more probing and light shining, he tells her, “I believe you have a concussion, Miss Cresta, but we’ll get that taken care of, don’t you worry.”

“A concussion!” LaSalle exclaims. “She’ll be able to perform her duties as mentor, won’t she? It will look very bad if we have to bring in another one or even if we use only the one we already have.” Cinna blinks at the man’s callousness, but LaSalle’s outrage reminds Annie so of an angry bird with ruffled feathers that she winks at Cinna and laughs, not caring, for the moment, about the increased pain her laughter causes.


	10. Strike a Pose

**Chapter Ten – Strike a Pose**

“Whatever did you do to your hand, Mr. Odair?” The woman’s purple eyes are wide and her voice squeaky. She’s not one of the usual techs Finnick sees when he needs the services available in the Remake Center, but then there are always extra staff on hand just before the Games and throughout the first day.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name…?”

“Oh! I’m Star.” This time her voice is both squeaky and breathy, an impressive feat. Finnick smiles at her.

“Well, Star, I punched a wall,” he tells her and her eyes somehow open even wider. He always thought it was just an expression, but now he wonders if it’s possible they might truly pop out of her head.

She has him move his chair closer to her and then pushes his hand down flat on the table, spreading his fingers out as far as they’ll go, just short of discomfort. She covers his hand with a cloth made of a fine wire mesh, warm to the touch, almost hot. “Why would you do something like that?” she squeaks at him.

He shrugs as she switches on a hand-held device and holds it over his knuckles, careful not to touch the mesh. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Well, I don’t think that could ever be a good idea, Mr. Odair.” She shudders as she checks the readout on the device and then adjusts the settings, running it over his hand again. “Nothing’s broken, so that’s good. It’ll just be another minute and your hand will be as good as new.”

“You know, Star, you can call me Finnick.” She blinks. And then she blinks again and he watches, fascinated, as her unnaturally purple eyes fill with iridescent tears. “Star? Did I say something wrong?” he asks, wondering what set her off.

She strokes his newly repaired knuckles and a warm tear drips down onto the back of his hand. “Oh, no, Mr. Odair…” She bites her lip and then squeaks out, “I mean _Finnick_.” She bites her lip again. “It’s just… Oh!” She whirls away from him and pulls open a drawer behind her, rummaging through it until she finds a tube of gel. Just when he thinks she’s not going to say anything more, she bursts out, “I am so upset! I can’t believe they’re sending you into the arena again!” _They?_ he thinks. _‘They’re sending,’ not ‘you’re going…’_ Her voice is at least an octave higher than before.

Busying herself, Star smoothes gel over his cheek and jaw. “Close your left eye, please,” she orders in a very business-like, if somewhat eye-wateringly high, tone. She sprinkles powder over the gel-coated treatment area, then holds her device over the cut. There’s a whining sound when she switches it on that enters his bones and settles there, vibrating away until he grits his teeth in an attempt to make them stop chattering. The gel and powder combination on his skin heats up and he can practically feel the edges of the cut knitting together.

“They shouldn’t send you back,” Star blurts out as she switches off the device, her voice rough. “It’s not fair!” The whining vibration stops and the left side of his face tingles, not unpleasantly, as she wipes away the film left behind by the gel.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Star. Broken promises are nothing new.” Star seems to be typical of the Capitol’s citizens, and if she, a complete stranger, is this upset about him going back into the arena, then others may be upset about the victors having to return as well. Since it’s not likely he’ll have any good access to Heavensbee, Finnick makes a mental note to mention this conversation to Haymitch, talk to him about how they might be able to use it.

Star doesn’t say much after that, other than to issue orders when she needs him to turn this way or that or lift his arms or strip so she can repair any damage covered by his clothes. An hour or so later Finnick’s skin is shiny and gleaming and his face and body are blemish-free. Outside the room’s main door, Marjora, the senior member of Finnick’s prep team, waits in the hallway; Star sees her through the window set into the door and rushes to put her equipment away, cleaning up the area before turning him over to his prep team.

Before she leaves, Star turns back toward Finnick, who stands off to the side, trying to stay out of the way. For a moment, it looks like she’s going to throw herself into his arms, but then she seems to think better of it – possibly because he’s still naked – and instead grabs his hand again as Marjora and the others set up their things, ignoring the remake tech.

“Oh, Mr. O– _Finnick_ ,” she starts and he almost laughs at the hybridization, but he doesn’t want to hurt her feelings, so he chokes back on it. “I wish none of you had to go back in, but I hope you win.” And then she’s gone, running for the door so fast he swears her body blurs with her speed. He had asked Star’s name because that’s the sort of thing that helps him to keep information straight in his head in case of later need, but now he wonders if maybe that simple act – showing just the slightest interest in her as a person – might have pushed her toward her current state of distress.

“I don’t even know what that was about,” he remarks to Marjora.

Pushing Finnick into the chair, she spins it around until he faces her. She studies his face and hair critically. “No one’s happy about the victors being tributes in these Games, Finnick.”

He snorts. “You can’t possibly be more unhappy about it than we are.” He settles back into the chair and closes his eyes. He’s been through prep with this team so many times over the years that it’s familiar and comfortable, that it doesn’t matter that it’s happening in the Remake Center, rather than in his rooms at the Training Center. As the other two join Marjora to work on him, talking about his hair and makeup interspersed with the latest Capitol gossip, Finnick relaxes and just lets it all wash over him. It’s easy to make his mind a blank and simply absorb everything. Some of it might even become relevant later, after he has time to process it.

“All done, Finnick,” Marjora announces and Finnick wakes with a start. “You’re ready for Raphael.” He wonders how long he was asleep, but it’s not important enough for him to ask.

He stares at his image in the mirror that comprises the wall opposite his chair. Makeup covers any lingering traces of bruising. They arranged his hair into a loose tail and when he moves his head, it pulls tight. He reaches up to tug free the ends of the leather thong they used to tie it back.

Behind him, Rafe enters the room and shoos the rest of the prep team away, their work complete. He gestures for Finnick to stand and step away from the prep area into the clear space between the chair and the door. Rafe walks around Finnick, surveying his team’s work, a bundle of gold with flashes of green draped over his arm. “You really are a beautiful man, Finnick,” Rafe remarks.

Finnick rolls his eyes. _What good has it ever done me?_ he thinks, but aloud he asks, “Can we just get this over with?” He eyes the bundle Rafe holds, which is far too small to be considered an actual costume, and hopes Mags’ team isn’t trying to make her up to match him.

With a put-upon sigh, Rafe tells Finnick to raise his arms and then he drapes the gold net with its varying shades and textures of green ribbon – not at all evocative of seaweed, but no one asked Finnick’s opinion – over his right shoulder, fastening it at his left hip. The remaining netting drapes down below the knot and he pulls it around Finnick’s hips, working the end of that into the original knot and securing it with a gold pin. When he’s finished, he stands back and has Finnick turn around for him one more time.

“Where’s the rest of it?” Finnick asks, knowing full well there is no “rest of it.” Rafe ignores him. “Please tell me Mags’ costume is more substantial.” Again Rafe says nothing and it’s Finnick’s turn to sigh as his unusually taciturn stylist crouches in front of him to fiddle with the netting and ribbons over Finnick’s groin, attempting to gain him a little more coverage.

Rafe stands when Marjora knocks at the door and pops her head in. “The tributes are gathering.” Finnick’s stomach rumbles, reminding him that he hasn’t eaten anything since the apple that morning, and if the rest of the tributes are already gathering, he’s not going to get a chance to rectify that.

Stepping away from Finnick, Rafe walks over to the pack he dropped by the door, pulls out a pair of sandals, and hands them to Finnick, who stands up again once he has them laced on. Rafe surveys his and his team’s work one last time before he silently hands Finnick an energy bar.

“You know me too well.” Finnick grins and takes a bite of the bar.

Rafe raises one brow. “You’re always hungry.”

“Not always.” There’s another knock, this one more insistent, and both men move toward the door.

“I’m sorry, Finnick,” Rafe says, opening the door and allowing Finnick to walk through ahead of him. He clearly means to say more, but doesn’t get the chance as Peacekeepers move into place to escort Finnick to the ground floor of the Remake Center.

xXx

The trip from the train station to the Hunger Games complex doesn’t take long. Phineas LaSalle, nominally in charge of Annie due to his position as the Capitol representative to District 4, decided before they ever left the train station that she should be treated in the Remake Center, rather than in one of the Capitol’s hospitals. When they arrive, there are people everywhere, both coming and going, and Cinna takes his leave. Annie almost asks him to stay, but stops herself. He has his own duties to see to and it isn’t fair of her to take up more of his time. She watches him walk away as LaSalle speaks to a woman holding a clipboard and pen like they’re a sword and shield.

After a few minutes, LaSalle leaves as well, and the woman with the clipboard leads Annie to a room that looks like a doctor’s office. “Please sit, Miss Cresta,” she directs Annie. “I’ll have a technician in to take care of you as soon as one is available.” Annie starts to ask her how long that might be, but the woman is already gone. Slumping back into her chair, Annie looks around the room, which is all purely functional monochrome. There’s nothing at all interesting to look at. The artwork on the walls is made up of shades of gray, there are no windows and only the one door. There’s not even a telephone or an intercom; the techs must carry any means of communication with them wherever they go.

“Please sit, Miss Cresta,” Annie mocks. “Let me get you a magazine, Miss Cresta. Would you like something to eat or drink, Miss Cresta? Oh, that’s right, no one really cares that you’re here.” Annie sighs, forgotten again. She slides down even further in the chair, resting her head on the back of it and stretching her legs out in front. With a glance at the clock above the door – 11:23 – she closes her eyes and does her best to ignore the way the room spins.

Nearly two hours later, a man enters, waking Annie from a restless sleep filled with odd images and a vague sense of dread. She straightens up in the chair as he reads through the information the medic gathered at the train station, flips through the pages on the clipboard the woman left behind, and then repeats nearly every action the original medic took.

When he’s finished, he gestures toward a cloth-covered metal table and tells Annie to lie down. Wires lead from beneath the table to a console at the near end and there are heavy canvas bands on the sides of it, so Annie expects it when the man straps her down, but she doesn’t like it. Her trepidation only increases when padded bumpers rise to either side of her head, narrowing her view and further curtailing her movements.

Taking the clipboard with him, the man settles in at the control console at the end of the table and consults his notes, making adjustments to the controls. Unable to do anything else, Annie stares up at the bright white light over her head. If she squints just right, the fixture surrounding the light breaks up into all sorts of pastel colors, which is better than the red shot through with lightning that she sees when she closes her eyes. The colors remind her of the linings of some of the shells back home, mother of pearl with her eyes open, the reddish hues of conch shells with them closed.

Apparently finished with his adjustments, the technician replaces the light fixture above Annie’s head with another device that gives off a high-pitched whine. The man grasps a pair of handles on either side of the device and pulls it down to cover the left half of her face. It fits snugly against her nose, a portion of it brushing against her lashes, and Annie closes her eyes.

“This will hurt a bit,” the tech warns her and Annie clutches tightly at the edges of the table. The whine grows louder, accompanied by a whirring sound. A vibration starts in the bones of her head where the device covers her and warms her skin, almost but not quite burning. Then a bright lance of pain, right where the Peacekeeper struck her, slices through her head and Annie clutches the table harder, clenches her teeth to bite back a cry. Her whole body is rigid with the effort not to scream, and just when she thinks she can’t hold back any longer, the vibration and heat stop.

Annie is afraid to open her eyes. It was more than just a little bit of pain. The lying technician flicks a couple of switches and pressure grows in Annie’s face under the device; it feels as though it’s pulling her skin away from her muscle and bone, except that it doesn’t hurt, not like before. It’s more like the pull from holding her hand against a vacuum, slightly unpleasant, but no worse than that. Then it’s gone and the man lifts the thing away from Annie’s face and the bumpers that hold her head steady retreat into the table.

“All done, Miss Cresta,” the man informs her gruffly as he releases the straps around Annie’s arms and legs. Retrieving the clipboard he left sitting on the console, the man leaves without another word.

Annie sits up and swings her legs over the side of the table, raising a hand to her forehead. Her face where the device rested feels a little tingly, but there’s no more pain and Annie’s skin is smooth beneath her fingers. The light in the room no longer hurts her eyes and there’s no more colorful refraction. Yet again, she is alone.

“What am I supposed to do now?” she asks aloud, but of course there’s no response. She stands up from the table, half expecting the room to spin, pleasantly surprised when it remains steady. She walks resolutely to the door and twists the knob, but the door doesn’t open. She looks around the room for something she can use to pry the pins from the hinges, but there’s nothing. Just like the train car, she is a prisoner here.

“Damn it.” She turns her back on the door and leans her shoulders against it. There's nothing left to do but wait.

xXx

The Peacekeepers leave Finnick beneath the Remake Center in the doorway to the enormous room that houses the garage and stables. He doesn’t think he’s the last one to arrive, but it’s hard to tell, since almost everyone in sight is a victor. Moving about in swirls and eddies, twenty-four tributes, more or less, wearing colorful district-themed costumes, mingle with as many mentors, drab and sober in comparison. Finnick has met most of them during his annual visits to the Capitol for the Games, and some of them he considers friends.

Based solely on the costumes, he doesn’t see either of the tributes from 12, who he expects will be as spectacular this year as last, nor does he see 3, unless 3’s stylist has done something truly creative, and what are the odds of that? He spots Johanna on the far side of the room talking to Blight and Enobaria. Where Enobaria glitters, even from this distance, with thousands of gemstones, Johanna and Blight are dressed in skintight bodysuits covered in fake bark and leaves. Jo holds the headdress under one arm, an ungainly thing with twisted branches and yet more fake leaves. He doesn’t see Blight’s headdress, but he’s sure it’s around somewhere.

“Ah, Jo, you’ve got to be loving life about as much as I am right now,” Finnick says to himself, grinning, but it's lost in the buzz of dozens of individual conversations. He steps further into the room and heads toward Johanna, but before he makes it even halfway, he hears Rafe calling his name. He turns to see his stylist running toward him.

“Forget something?” he asks as Rafe comes to a stop in front of him.

“Yes.” Rafe presses a gold pin into Finnick’s hand. “Rialla reminded me that I have both pins. Would you please give this to Mags when she gets here?” Finnick turns the bit of jewelry over in his hand; the pin, a gold circle about an inch in diameter and, he realizes, the twin of the one fastening his net in place, is a mockingjay.

Finnick looks sharply at Rafe. _Can they possibly know the significance of this?_ he wonders. Aloud he says, “Sure. Why a mockingjay? It’s not like we get a lot of them in Four…”

Rafe shrugs. “We had to have something to fasten the nets and Rialla found these. Besides, I think they look good with the overall motif.” A growing silence spreading out from the main doorway causes Finnick to glance over Rafe’s shoulder and Rafe turns around to see what’s happening behind him. Finnick’s mouth goes dry at the sight of Coriolanus Snow standing in that doorway, surveying his room full of victors.

The President’s gaze lights on Finnick as the remaining conversations grind to a halt. He gestures for Finnick to stay where he is, then steps fully into the room, stopping to say something to Cecelia and Gloss before continuing to Finnick.

With barely a glance at Rafe, Snow’s eyes track deliberately down Finnick’s body to his sandaled feet and back up again to his artfully arranged hair before stopping at his eyes. He smiles at Finnick and reaches into an inner pocket for a handkerchief, dabs at a spot of blood at the corner of his mouth and returns the handkerchief to his pocket. He nods at someone over Finnick’s right shoulder and then locks his gaze on Finnick.

Snow smiles when he says, “There is a couple who would like to meet you following the ceremonies, Finnick, so when you return to the Training Center, don’t go to your floor right away.” In the silence of the room, his voice carries. Finnick feels the blood rush to his face as sudden anger fills him, crowding out the embarrassment.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Tact is beyond him at the moment and he doesn’t even try to keep the anger from his voice.

“I do not ‘kid,’ Finnick. You should know that by now,” he adds with a raised brow. “You have a good deal to make up for, given they were supposed to make your acquaintance a few days ago, before you decided to alter your schedule.” Snow’s voice is as icy as his name. He and Finnick are not at the center of the room, but they are the center of attention; Finnick feels the gaze of nearly everyone present as a growing pressure on his skin. “You’ll meet them in the Training Center lobby.”

Finnick glances at Rafe for half a second before returning his attention to Snow. The desire to smash his fist into Snow’s face is nearly overwhelming as he asks, “Is this supposed to humiliate me? Because everyone here knows what I am.” He manages to keep his fists at his sides even as he pictures Snow’s nose gushing blood.

The President smiles, the expression not reaching his eyes, very much aware of what Finnick would like to do to him. He pats Finnick on the cheek, flicks an imaginary speck of dust or smudge of makeup from Finnick’s bare shoulder. “You are so very good at what you do, my dear boy. Should you not survive these Games, you will be missed.” Snow steps past him then and Finnick closes his eyes, willing himself not to react any further to Snow’s provocation. He was a fool to think that, because he’s officially within the jurisdiction of the Games now, Snow would leave him alone, not if there is still money to be made. Who’s going to tell the President no?

Finnick takes a deep breath and opens his eyes as conversations slowly resume around the room. Cecelia gives him a sympathetic look. Gloss’ expression is unreadable, but then that’s nothing new – he and Finnick have always been rivals in one way or another, never quite friends. Rafe’s eyes are wide and he looks a little nervous. Snow is gone and no one says a word to Finnick about what just happened.

Finnick tells Rafe, his voice as steady as he can make it, “I’ll give this to Mags.” Rafe looks down at Finnick’s hand, at the pin clutched so tightly Finnick is surprised it doesn’t cut through his skin; he forces himself to loosen his grip. Rafe opens then closes his mouth, leaving whatever he meant to say unsaid. Instead he nods and turns, all but running to the door.

Determined to act as though nothing happened, Finnick searches the crowd of victors until he finds Johanna again, but before he can head toward her a light touch on his shoulder stops him.

“Are you okay, Finnick?” Cecelia asks. He turns to face her, sees nothing but concern in her brown eyes.

“What? Snow?” She nods and he waves a hand dismissively. “Yeah, Cecelia. I’m fine. He staged that whole thing just to rattle me, but I’m not going to let it.” They both know that’s a lie, but Cecelia doesn’t call him on it. “What about you?” He doesn’t want to mention her family, but he can’t stop seeing those three kids clinging to her at her reaping.

“I’m as okay as I can be,” she tells him, her eyes full of shadows.

“They didn’t let you say goodbye, either, did they?”

She shakes her head. “No. They hustled us off to the train station as soon as we were reaped.”

“It was the same in Four.”

“We saw what happened at your reaping. Is Annie okay?”

“You didn’t see all of it,” he tells her, hearing again the sound of the rifle butt impacting on Annie’s head, even though he knows half of it is his imagination.

Cecelia frowns. “What happened?”

“She wouldn’t stop screaming, so a Peacekeeper hit her. The last time I saw her, she was on the ground, unconscious and bleeding.” Cecelia takes one of his hands in hers. “I have no idea if she’s okay. No one will tell me anything.”

“Oh, Finnick, I’m so sorry.” She looks away. “We’re all just so powerless against them.”

Deciding to take a chance on her, Finnick glances around to see who might be close enough to overhear them. When he’s satisfied no one is listening in, he asks her, “What if we could change that?”

She hears it in his voice that his question isn’t rhetorical. “Meaning?”

“Alliance?”

“It sounds to me like you’re thinking of more than just a simple alliance for the Games.”

“You always were quick on the uptake.” Finnick grins, but it fades quickly. Cecelia has never shown herself to be anything but trustworthy, even in the way she fought and won her Games, and he thinks he can trust her now. “I’m proposing an alliance between Four, Seven, Eight, and Twelve. More if we can manage it.”

“Not the other Careers?”

He shrugs. “Maybe, but maybe not. I haven’t spoken to any of them yet.” Enobaria might be open to it, but Brutus? Cashmere? He doubts either of them would go for it, and if Cashmere isn’t on board, then neither is Gloss.

“Why Seven and Twelve?” Cecelia asks. “For that matter, why Eight?” Traditionally, 8 doesn’t participate in alliances with any of the Career districts.

He steps a little closer to her, smiles flirtatiously for anyone who might be watching, whispers in her ear, “Mostly to protect the girl from Twelve. We need her to survive.”

Cecelia pulls back to look him in the eye. “Rebellion?” she whispers, the word barely audible, her lips barely moving. Finnick meets her gaze, nods. They stand that way for an eternity that lasts maybe three seconds, then Cecelia pulls him into an embrace.

“We’re in,” she whispers fiercely into his ear. “If my kids have to lose their mother, I want it to be for a reason.” She releases him and spins, walking away without another word to join Woof, her district partner.

“So do I, Cecelia,” Finnick whispers toward her retreating back. “So do I.” He locates Johanna yet again and heads that way.

“Did that son of a bitch really pimp you out again?” Johanna asks, incredulous, as Finnick approaches.

“He did,” Finnick confirms. Blight holds out his hand and he and Finnick shake.

Enobaria shakes her head, causing the gemstones woven into her midnight hair to glitter like stars. “Better you than me.” She bares her shark teeth in a grin; next to Finnick, she’s the most popular victor in the Capitol.

“Better none of us,” Johanna says and Enobaria arches one eyebrow, looks from her to Blight to Finnick.

“I told you, Johanna, you can count me out of your rebel crap.” Her voice is pitched low to not be overheard, but she’s firm in her denial. “I won’t stand in your way, so long as it doesn’t cause me grief, but I will not help you.”

“Rebel ‘ _crap_?’ You said you were sympathetic.”

“I am, but I’m not risking my family on something that’s doomed from the start.” She glances at the door through which Snow left a few minutes before. Johanna opens her mouth to say something else, but Enobaria holds up a hand. “No. No alliance.” She turns and stalks away, headed toward the District 2 chariot where the victors from 1 stand beside Brutus and Lyme, another victor from 2.

“Bitch,” Johanna says, her gaze still pinned on Enobaria. Finnick looks at over Jo and laughs.

xXx

“Annie?” Cinna stands just inside the door; she didn’t hear it open. “I stopped by to check on you and they told me you’re finished. To be honest, I didn’t expect you’d still be here.” He smiles at her.

Annie blinks. Her eyes don’t want to focus, but it’s not like it was before. She rubs at them and blinks again rapidly, forcing the dryness away. “How long was I asleep?” she asks him before she remembers that he won’t know, he wasn’t here. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” She swings her legs down from the chair, rests her bare feet flat on the carpeted floor, digging her toes into the pile. If Cinna is here, then she’s no longer locked in.

Cinna steps further into the room and holds out a hand to her. “Well, I thought, since we’re both expected to be at the opening ceremonies, if only for the moral support of our tributes, we might as well go together.”

At the words “opening ceremonies,” Annie bends over in her chair, lifts her hands to cover her ears. She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, but then opens them again and forces herself to straighten up, pushes her hands back down to grip the arms of the chair as she stands. _My name is Annie Cresta. I am twenty-two years old. I am the victor of the 70th Hunger Games._

“All right,” Annie whispers. Cinna’s friendly smile fades, replaced by a look of concern that’s already becoming familiar to Annie. She walks over to Cinna and takes his proffered hand, clutching it tightly, thinking that the gesture is something Finnick would do, if he were here. And he must be here somewhere within the Remake Center, if the opening ceremonies are about to begin.

Annie looks down at her blouse and skirt, the same ones she wore to the reaping only yesterday. “There’s blood all over me,” she says. There must be blood dried in her hair, too. She shudders, desperately wanting a shower, but she has nothing to change into.

“Why don’t we go to your quarters, then?” Cinna suggests. “You can get cleaned up and changed before we go down.”

She frowns. Her quarters? He must mean District 4’s floor of the Training Center. “Yes. I’d like to do that, but don’t you have to be with your…” She swallows, reluctant to say the word for all the memories it raises. “… your tributes?”

She’d hated being with her stylist in preparation for the opening ceremonies of her Games, hated all that he’d done to her in the name of “making a splash” with the citizens of the Capitol, not just that night but also for the interview with Caesar Flickerman the night before they sent her and the other tributes into the arena. It had been a different stylist for her Victory Tour, but he might as well have been the same person, the designs were so similar, so wrong for her, pandering as they did to the wants and whims of the Capitol.

Looking into Cinna’s gold-flecked eyes, she thinks she might not have hated it so much with him, that she might have believed him if he told her he wanted her to look her best so she’d have a better chance at netting sponsors. _He_ would never have used the word “netting,” though.

Cinna reaches with his free hand to tuck a stray strand of Annie’s hair behind her ear. “Are you alright, Annie?”

She shakes her head. “Not really.” Looking down again at her dirty clothes and skin, she continues, “But I think a shower will help. How long do we have?”

He turns his head to glance at the clock above the door. “Just a shade over an hour. Plenty of time.” She squeezes his hand and he doesn’t let go as they leave the room, something else that reminds her of Finnick. She knows Cinna has to join the others from 12, but she’s grateful for his help and selfish enough that she doesn’t tell him she’ll be fine on her own.

xXx

From a table at the end of the room nearest the stables, Finnick snags a couple of apples and as many sugar cubes as he can carry. They’re meant for the horses, but he doesn’t think they’ll mind sharing. He quickly eats one of the apples and tosses the core to a dapple gray mare watching him curiously from the District 9 chariot, which looks a little different this year, then heads off into the thick of the crowd, munching on sugar cubes.

Weaving between groups of victors and chariots, his eyes light on Chaff, dressed in gold with some sort of plume on his head that Finnick supposes is meant to evoke wheat. He’s talking to Haymitch, who wears a pair of black trousers and a shirt that shades from deep blue at the hem to orange and bright yellow at the collar and which appears to be misbuttoned. And possibly stained. Finnick grins. _So much for sober._ He heads over to join them in their corner by the District 11 chariot.

About halfway there, he realizes that it isn’t just the District 9 chariot that looks different this year. The chariot for 11 is shaped like a basket, the kind the people of that district use to gather the harvest.

When Finnick stops beside him, Chaff punches Finnick in the shoulder by way of greeting and says, “Don’t they ever let you wear clothes, boy?”

“Not for the last ten years, old man. I guess they figured why start now?” He offers Chaff his as yet untouched apple and receives an almost horrified look in return. “What?” he asks, studying the apple, which looks to him to be perfectly edible, if a little small.

“Apples are outta season. That thing must be nearly a year old and it’s gotta be mushy as hell.”

Finnick shrugs and takes a bite. “Tastes good to me. We don’t get many apples in Four.” The apple is small but very sweet; it doesn’t take long to finish it and he feeds the core to one of the horses harnessed to the chariot; the horse takes it delicately from his hand. Since Chaff turned down the apple, Finnick offers him a sugar cube, but the older man declines that, too.

Haymitch stares at Finnick, a speculative look in his eyes. Finnick looks at Chaff and then back to Haymitch. “If I’d known you cared so much, Haymitch, I’d’ve offered you some sugar, too,” he purrs. Haymitch’s expression goes from speculative to disgusted in less than a blink and Finnick laughs.

“You’re not my type, Odair. Too pretty. Why don’t you go talk to my girl instead?” Haymitch nods his head back in the direction Finnick came from. An attractive dark-haired girl dressed in skintight black stands by herself, stroking the cheek of one of the coal black horses harnessed to the District 12 chariot, also coal black.

“So that’s our Mockingjay…” Finnick whispers, low enough that no one but Haymitch and Chaff can hear. “Kind of a tiny thing, isn’t she?”

“Only on the outside,” Haymitch responds and Finnick looks at him sharply.

“Careful, Haymitch. I might start thinking you’re as infatuated as your Peeta.”

Haymitch snorts. “Ain’t nobody _that_ far gone.” But then he sobers again. “Are you still on board?” he asks. Finnick glances at Chaff, but reads nothing off him. He looks back at Haymitch.

“It’s not like I’m going to walk out of that arena a second time,” Finnick says, thinking about his conversation with Cecelia earlier. “I might as well die for a reason.”

Chaff cuffs him with his stump. “Good man.”

Haymitch visibly relaxes. “I told Katniss to make some allies, but she’s stubborn. Thinks she and Peeta can make it alone.” He spears Finnick with a look. “Convince her otherwise.”

As Beetee, Wiress, and one of the District 3 mentors approach, Finnick pops another sugar cube into his mouth and winks at Haymitch, then strolls toward Katniss Everdeen, their unwitting symbol of rebellion.


	11. Echoes of a City

**Chapter Eleven – Echoes of a City**

A chime sounds, echoing throughout the cavernous chamber and half a second later a voice intones, “Tributes, take your places.” Avoxes maneuver the chariots into place and make sure the horses’ gear and the chariots’ ornamentation is just so while stylists and a few mentors do the same for their tributes. The flurry of activity is the same every year, differing only as to the details.

Johanna rushes past Finnick, leafy headdress dragging on the ground behind her as she heads further back in the chariot line. He grabs her by the wrist and she whirls around, sharp words on her lips, but when she sees it’s him, she subsides.

“Did you talk to Haymitch?” he asks, glancing around for eavesdroppers, but no one pays them any attention, too busy preparing to parade through the streets of the Capitol. Up ahead, Brutus snarls at an Avox to get out of his way. Gloss, wearing black satin and leather, adjusts Cashmere’s white velvet and fur cloak and for a moment Finnick is almost happy about his own costume; it may not leave anything to the imagination, but at least it’s cooler than heavy fabric and animal hide in the height of a Capitol summer.

Rolling her eyes, Johanna says, “Yes, Finnick, I spoke to Haymitch.”

“And?” Behind him, just within his line of sight, Mags leans against the side of their chariot for support as she twitches a fold of gold net and green ribbon into place over her hip, covering exposed skin. Finnick still can’t believe her stylist dressed her in as little as Rafe gave him, not even a bodysuit underneath.

“I told him,” Johanna says, “that if you’re fool enough to sacrifice yourself for the kids from Twelve, then so am I. Happy?”

Some of the tension he’s felt ever since their meeting with Heavensbee weeks before drains out of him and he tells her, “No, but I do feel a little safer.” She reaches up and strokes his cheek.

“I’m doing it for you, Odair, not them.” She winks. “Don’t let it go to your head.” And then she’s off, sprinting for her chariot, which looks as though it was carved from raw timber. Looking at the District 7 chariot, Finnick can’t believe it took him so long to catch on that the chariots were changed up for the Quarter Quell, just like the terms of the Games themselves. The difference isn’t so striking with most of them, but they’re all different from the simple black and chrome of previous years. Johanna’s headdress slams up against the District 5 wheel and one of its branches snags on some wiring, but she doesn’t let that slow her down.

Once Jo breezes past the morphlings from 6, Finnick steps up into the District 4 chariot, a thing of glistening mother-of-pearl in appearance, if not in fact, and reaches down for Mags’ hand. He pulls her up easily, since she hardly weighs anything. Smiling at him, she draws his head down and kisses his left eyebrow. “Love you, boy,” she tells him.

“I love you, too, Mags.” She turns to face forward, laying her ever-present cane down at their feet before resting her hands on the rim of the chariot and looking out over the team’s broad backs. The horses’ dappled hides look almost silver under the artificial lights.

Finnick glances back over the long line of tributes awaiting their turn to head out into the streets. Nearly at the end of the line, Martin Perch stands by the District 11 chariot, arm resting along the top of one wheel, talking to Seeder and Chaff. He looks up and waves when he sees Finnick watching. Finnick returns the greeting and then faces forward again when he hears District 3 head out. A moment later their chariot lurches forward and he reaches over to steady Mags as their team falls in behind 3. Beetee and Wiress are lit up like the neon signs of the Capitol’s entertainment district, the brilliant shades of blue and green contrasting with the bright white and yellow that outlines their chariot. They are blinding.

As the line of tributes passes out into the road, the people along the streets cheer, shouting out the names or district numbers of their favorites. Gloss and Cashmere get their fair share of adoration, as does Enobaria, but when the District 4 chariot hits the street, the sheer volume of noise rises dramatically as flowers of all shape, sizes, and colors rain down all around them. Cries of “Finnick, we love you!” and just plain “Finnick!” ring out as they pick up speed and he waves at his own adoring fans, trying hard not to roll his eyes. It wouldn’t be good for the cameras mounted everywhere along the way to pick up something like that. Beside him, Mags laughs out loud.

It doesn’t take long for the chariot to accelerate enough that Finnick’s hair slips free from its ties to blow loose around his face, caught up in the wind of their passage. His own image on the enormous screens that line their route, bronze mane free and flying, catches his eye and he grimaces, but quickly changes it to a grin.

On impulse, Finnick takes Mags’ hand in his and raises it up for a kiss, then lifts their joined hands high in a show of partnership. It’s just a small act of rebellion, inspired by Haymitch’s kids last year, but it makes him feel better about the freak show and the night in general. Balmy and clear, the summer evening wouldn’t be so bad at all, if it wasn’t the precursor to another fight to the death, this time involving friends instead of strangers, if he didn’t have an appointment to keep immediately following the opening ceremonies. The thought of the arena and Snow and the unknown couple waiting for him at the Training Center pulls him back down to earth.

Forcing a smile, waving as the crowd continues to scream his name and shower them with flowers, Finnick tells Mags, “I hate them all.” And if that smile doesn’t reach his eyes, no one along the parade route or watching on television will see, but Mags does. She squeezes his hand, whether in agreement or just in support, he isn’t sure. Both of them keep waving until Mags’ arm gives out and drops to her side, leaving only Finnick to greet the citizens of the Capitol that line their route.

The lights and sights fly by in a glowing blur and occasionally one of the huge monitors strategically placed along the way catches Finnick’s eye. Cashmere’s and Gloss’s cloaks billowing, one snow, the other pitch. District 3’s lights leaving behind bright contrails. He and Mags with golden nets glittering like sun-kissed droplets of water on skin. The bizarre flaming belts of District 10. Chaff catching his golden headdress as it slides from his head. And then, as he and Mags reach the City Circle, a glimpse of Katniss and Peeta of District 12, glowing like burning embers, holding hands like he and Mags but staring straight ahead as though nothing – not the crowds, not the Capitol, not even fucking Snow – can touch them.

He’s sure he screwed up, took the wrong tack when he spoke to Katniss earlier in the evening, but seeing them now… His heart hammering in his chest, Finnick leans down and whispers to Mags, “Look at them, Mags. _Look_ at them. We might actually have a chance at this.”

Mags smiles and squeezes his hand, raises it to kiss his knuckles, just he had done earlier with her. He’d rather be like the pair from 12 and metaphorically tell all the citizens of the Capitol to fuck off, but instead he keeps smiling and waves with his free hand, blows kisses to various and sundry in the crowds lining the streets, pretends to catch kisses thrown to him. He grins down at Mags, suddenly enjoying the ride, if only for a few brief moments.

xXx

No one stops Annie and Cinna as they leave the Remake Center. They take a car reserved for official Hunger Games business from there to the Training Center, perhaps a five-minute drive, and the driver drops them off at the main entrance. Cinna offers Annie his hand to help her from the car and she keeps a tight hold on it as they enter the building. Holding hands, they cross the lobby with its low tables and comfortable chairs and full-service bar, stopping at the crystalline elevators, but when he tries to pull his hand from hers, she doesn’t let him. She’s too full of memories, shaking with the need to find somewhere safe so that no one and nothing can find her, but she recognizes that there is no such place.

She doesn’t know what Cinna sees in her face when he looks down at her, but instead of pulling away, he tucks her arm under his and takes a firmer hold on her hand. By the time the elevator opens onto the fourth floor, Annie is shaking so hard she has to grit her teeth to keep them from chattering.

On the fourth floor, he leads her into the common area and the door closes behind them. He turns to face Annie and takes her other hand as well. Both of her hands in his, he says, “Annie, look at me. You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you here.” His voice is gentle, his grip solid.

Reluctantly, she forces her gaze upward to meet his, staring at the gold flecks in his eyes. “You remind me of Finnick,” she whispers, giving voice to the thought she’s had several times that afternoon.

“Finnick Odair?” When she nods, he asks, “How so?” His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles at her, looking doubtful.

“Just now. When you took my hands. What you said. It’s what Finnick does, when I start to lose it.” She closes her eyes and imagines the sound of the waves crashing on their beach back home. She silently wishes until she feels the ocean breeze cool and salty on her skin, hears Finnick’s voice as he tells her she’s safe, that he won’t let anyone hurt her.

“Does that happen often? You losing it?” Cinna is no longer smiling. He looks worried about her again.

“It used to happen all the time. Not so much anymore.” She blinks back tears. _I will not cry_ , she thinks. _I can get through this. I am Annie Cresta. I am twenty-two years old. I am the victor of the 70th Hunger Games._ “I’m sorry I’m acting like such a child,” she tells Cinna, but he just shakes his head.

“It’s hard for you to come back here, isn’t it?” He strokes her wrists with his thumbs; Annie doesn’t think he’s even aware that he’s doing it.

Nodding, she looks down at their hands, cream against coffee, sees the strong lines of his palms and wrists where they show past the backs of her own. The sight reminds her of her grandmother, the way she used to hold a petitioner’s hands when she’d tell them about their future and their past, just from looking at the lines and shapes. Annie smiles at the thought of Gran, the only family she ever knew, until Finnick. Gran would have liked him.

Feeling steadier, she says, “I’ll be okay, Cinna.” She pulls away from him and backs toward the door that was hers when she was a tribute here. There’s no guarantee that it’s still set up for the female tributes and even if it is, it’s probably where Mags is staying, but it’s the only place she thinks might have clean clothes she could borrow. “I’m going to shower. I won’t be long.”

A quick search of the bedroom yields clean underwear in the dresser and a blue dress that looks like it might fit her hanging in the closet. Annie strips off her soiled blouse and skirt, once favorites, and drops them into the trash. Even if the blood could be washed from the fabric, she’ll never wear them again. She takes the new things with her into the adjoining bathroom.

Annie doesn’t linger in the shower and she quickly dresses before returning to the common area. Cinna sits on the couch sketching, his pencil flying over the paper in broad strokes. The television is on, the sound turned down low, the scene that of the crowds gathering on the streets awaiting the start of the opening ceremonies. Annie shudders, clutching the doorway tightly with both hands, awash in unwanted memory.

_A flash of glittering, colorful costumes. The scent of horses, there and then wafting away. Eddies of conversation stilled by the call to mount the chariots. The vibration beneath her feet as her chariot moves through the streets. The sting of her own hair when the ends strike her in the face._

She must have made a sound, because Cinna looks up from his sketch. Smiling, he closes his sketchbook and pushes up from the couch. “Ready?” He offers her his hand again.

But she can’t pull her gaze away from the television screen. There must be thousands of people already gathered in the streets below, all there to see the parade of tributes for the Games, some to cheer on their favorites, others to start taking bets as to who will win, who will make the first kill, who will be the first to die.

“I... don’t think I can do this.”

His smile fading, Cinna studies her face for a moment then nods and reaches for the bag that sits on the table in front of the couch. Annie forces her fingers to release the door jamb and walks over to the big window that looks out over the courtyard. Her back is to the television, but it doesn’t help. She can still see the images reflected in the glass.

“Portia, it’s me. Can you handle things on your own for a while?” Annie watches Cinna’s reflection, a much easier sight than either the images on the television screen or her own haunted eyes. “No, something came up and I don’t think I’ll be down until it’s over.” Another pause. “So you’re abandoning them, too?” He laughs softly. “I agree. They’re both smart. They know what to do.” He laughs again and Annie decides that she likes the sound. “All right. I’ll meet you downstairs when the chariots return to base.”

As he returns his phone to the bag, Annie focuses on the view outside the window. Across the courtyard, the sky is aglow with flickering white light. It drowns out the setting sun, which has already fallen below the level of the nearby roofs. Annie shivers and wraps her arms tightly around herself. Behind her, Cinna sits again and reopens his sketchbook, flips to a new page and begins to draw. He glances from Annie to his sketch, back and forth as she watches him in the glass; they remain that way until the anthem begins to play. Annie thinks his new sketch must be of her.

She doesn’t move away from the window when the anthem begins, but she does turn around to face the television. She swallows hard, keeps holding herself as though that will somehow keep her from falling apart as the chariots begin their parade. A pair of announcers, male and female, provides commentary on each District pair. She doesn’t know the tributes, she’s never had to return to the Capitol to mentor or even to attend the Games, but she knows at least some of them are Finnick’s friends. Most of them will be dead in a matter of days.

The gleaming silver chariot for District 1 rolls out, the man and woman inside a stark contrast of black and white. A minute or so later District 2 joins them, the tributes covered in gems, both on their costumes and woven into their hair, sparkling in the lights as the chariot, which appears to be carved out of onyx, moves into the street. District 3 is a dazzling lightshow, so bright that Annie can barely make out the people inside.

And then Finnick is on the screen, waving to the crowds, kissing Mags’ hand and then lifting their joined hands higher, for all of Panem to see. Partners, not enemies. The announcers mention the fact that Mags mentored Finnick for his Games, that she helped him in his victory, then go on to note the irony that now they return to the arena where they can only be temporary allies at best.

Annie sinks down to her knees. “Oh, Finnick,” she whispers. She looks up to see Cinna watching her; for the brief time Finnick was on screen, she had forgotten Cinna was here.

“Are you alright?” he asks her as he lays aside his sketchbook.

The scene on the television switches to the District 5 chariot and Annie rolls to her feet before Cinna can stand and take the two or three steps needed to reach her. She shrugs and, wanting to run and hide, instead turns back to the window, wishing she and Finnick were anywhere but here. “Thank you for staying with me,” she says to Cinna, not exactly an answer to his question. She hasn’t been alright in weeks.

“Are you and Finnick close?” he asks her as District 6 takes to the streets.

Staring at the glow of the sky over the buildings, even brighter with the deepening night, she says simply, “Yes.” She spreads the palm of her hand out flat on the window, the glass cold against her skin. She can see from the pity in his reflection that Cinna has bought into the lies the Capitol has spread about Finnick and his lovers, but it doesn’t matter. Annie turns to face him.

“You should go to your tributes, Cinna.” District 7 is on screen now and Annie recognizes the woman in the wooden chariot as the one from the train station who pushed a man into a planter of roses. She remembers her name, now: Johanna Mason. Finnick’s friend.

“Will you be alright until your people return?”

“I’ll be fine.” District 8 joins the parade. “It’ll only be a few more minutes.” As if to confirm her statement, the scene shifts, splits, one half showing the tributes from 8, the other the arrival of District 1 in the City Circle.

“If you’re sure…”

“Go, Cinna.” She smiles, if not hugely, at least genuinely. She pushes away from the window and walks to his side, stretches up to kiss his cheek, one hand on his arm. “Your Katniss is lucky to have you on her team.”

Frowning, clearly worried for her, Cinna leaves as District 9 hits the streets. He promises to check on her later as the elevator doors close. Annie goes back to watching out the window. When the recap of the opening ceremonies begins to play on the television behind her, starting with the various costumes and moving on from there to who looked the best and worst, both in terms of costume and survivability of the Games, Annie leaves the window and turns off the TV. She curls up on one end of the couch to wait.

Not long after, the elevator starts up and only a few minutes after that the doors slide open on a group of people Annie has never seen before. Capitol citizens, chattering about costumes and hairstyles and makeup. Probably Finnick’s prep team, although there are too many of them to be just that. Annie doesn’t move from her place on the couch, watching them warily. It takes them a moment to notice her as they descend on the room in a wave and when they do, they fall silent and frozen, staring at her. No one says anything, not the Capitol flock in their bright plumage, not Annie.

The elevator opens again and Mags stumps through with her cane followed by Martin and Phineas and another man and woman Annie doesn’t know. Mags stops cold at the sight of Annie, forcing the others to flow around her.

Annie stands, smiling, looking expectantly past Mags and the others at the elevator doors. It takes a few seconds for it to register that the doors are closing, that no one else is getting off on their floor. She looks from Mags to Martin.

“Where’s Finnick?”

Phineas steps around Mags, waving one hand airily. “Oh, he has an appointment with someone or other downstairs. He’ll be along in a while.” He takes a handful of nuts from a bowl on the table in front of the couch and continues down the hallway to the right.

That seems to be the signal for the Capitol flock to move about the room, resuming their conversations and quickly disappearing down the hallway to the left. Annie sinks back down onto the couch.

“Finnick?” Trepidation grows in Annie as she looks at Mags.

The old woman makes her way to the couch and sits beside Annie. Sympathy and anger war in her old eyes as she says one word quite clearly: “Snow.”


	12. The Hand That Feeds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has some forced prostitution and dub-con. And Finnick has a bit of an attitude problem, so there's that.

**Chapter Twelve – The Hand That Feeds**

When Finnick arrives at the Training Center lobby, there are more people around than he anticipated, among them some of his fellow victors and several pairs who could be the couple Snow sold him to. He has neither name nor description - a touch of pettiness on Snow's part? - and doesn’t feel like walking up to any of them and asking if they bought him for the evening, so he heads to the bar in the corner of the room. If they want him so badly, they can come to him. It’s not like he’s hard to spot.

Stepping into an empty space between Gloss and a tall woman with long, straight black hair, Finnick catches the bartender’s eye and orders a glass of whiskey. Gloss glances over his shoulder at Finnick and slides to the left to give him a little more room. “Don’t you have an eight o’clock?” he asks.

“I’m in no hurry.” Finnick picks up his drink and downs it in one swallow, ignoring the burn, and signals for another. “Nobody said I have to be sober.”

Gloss makes an amused sound, more snort than laugh, as he sips at his own drink. “Snow must have a hard on for you to win.” Finnick gives him a quizzical look; the observation is diametrically opposed to what Finnick has been thinking. “No one else is on display like that.” Gloss gestures with his glass at Finnick’s costume. “Whatever he’s getting for you now, it’ll probably double once you’re a two-time victor.”

Finnick shudders as he takes his refilled glass from the bartender. He hadn’t thought of that in regard to his own chance of survival. “Just one more thing to look forward to.” He studies Gloss for a moment, but the man keeps his expression perfectly blank. “Assuming I even make it past the bloodbath at the Cornucopia.”

Gloss shrugs. “You have as good a chance as any of us.” He takes another sip. “Better than most.”

Finnick laughs. “With you and the rest of the Careers targeting me?”

“You’re a Career, too, Finnick,” Gloss reminds him.

“Not this time.” He takes a swallow of the whiskey, drinking it more slowly, enjoying the smoky sweetness and already feeling the buzz from the liquor hitting his empty stomach. The dark-haired woman is still there to his right; the bartender brings her a drink and a menu.

Nodding, Gloss says, “Bari warned us you were breaking with the pack.”

Finnick laughs. “She hates it when you call her that.”

Gloss grins at him. “I know.” They drink in silence for a couple of minutes, a noticeable change from the subtle needling they usually engage in when chance – or Snow – brings them together. They’ve known each other for years. Thanks to Snow, they know far more about each other than either of them likes, but standing here with Gloss now, Finnick thinks that if they had met under different circumstances, they might have been friends.

The woman to Finnick’s right places a food order. On the other side of the room, a pair of Peacekeepers enters the lobby and moves toward the small group of victors talking together around one of the low tables between the door and the bar. There’s a brief conversation and the victors, tributes and mentors alike from 5 and 9, stand and start heading for the door. One of the Peacekeepers spots Finnick and Gloss at the bar and crosses the room to them. With a glance at Finnick, the Peacekeeper says to Gloss, “I’m sorry, sir, but I have to ask you to return to your floor.”

Gloss straightens and frowns; not a small man, between his expression and his stance, he looks vaguely menacing. “Is there a curfew I don’t know about?” The Peacekeeper’s posture stiffens and his hand drops to his sidearm. Gloss doesn’t look particularly concerned by this when he gestures toward Finnick and asks, “What about him?”

“I’m supposed to be here, Gloss.” Across the room, an Avox delivers two plates of food to a man at another low table just as the woman from the bar joins him, kissing his cheek before taking her seat. When the Avox leaves, the man and woman both turn toward the bar. The woman says something and the man waves at Finnick, beckons him over to join them. “And those two must be my ‘dates’ for the evening.” He pushes back from the bar. “See you in training,” he tells Gloss as he picks up his half-full tumbler.

Gloss tosses back the rest of his drink and follows Finnick’s lead, pushing away from the bar. With a dismissive glance at the armed Peacekeeper, he claps Finnick on the shoulder. “Hope you get some sleep tonight, Finnick.” Gloss follows the other victors as they leave the lobby with their Peacekeeper escort and Finnick, drink in hand, heads to the table and his eight o’clock appointment.

Snow gave him no instructions. He has no idea which of the pair is the driving force or what’s expected of him, and thus he doesn’t know how he should act, other than flirty. Under the circumstances, the alcohol was probably a mistake. While a drink or two beforehand can make things more bearable, he’s afraid tonight it will only allow him to say things he’ll regret later. Like what he really thinks about having to be here.

The man catches Finnick’s eye and nods almost imperceptibly toward his companion, whose back is to Finnick. A dozen or so people remain in the lobby, including Training Center staff, and Finnick is the only victor. For the second time that night, he is the center of attention, and he wishes he could kill Snow for making this a semi-public event, Rafe for dressing him in nothing but a net and some ribbon. At least Mags had strategically placed shells.

The woman’s dress is low cut in back and her hair is gathered on the left side of her long neck, leaving the back of her neck and her shoulders bare. Still watching the man for cues, Finnick trails his fingers over her smooth golden skin and she shivers, turning her head toward Finnick. “Do you mind if I join you?” he asks in his trademark seductive purr. “I couldn’t help but notice you at the bar.” Finnick wonders how many cameras are recording them as the man at the table stands and holds out a hand, gesturing toward the chair between himself and the woman.

“Mr. Odair. Please. Join us. I’m Henrik Muhti and this is my wife, Melissa.”

Melissa smiles up at Finnick, her eyes traveling over his body with frank interest. “Oh, Rik, my love, can we take him home with us?”

Finnick glances at Henrik’s outstretched hand, at Melissa’s smile, her bright-dark eyes. For the first time since his brother’s boat docked at the public wharf back home – was it only yesterday? – he thinks about his family, about what he told his father of the potentially devastating storm racing their way. He thinks about Annie and the fact that he still doesn’t know where she is or what happened to her after the Peacekeepers dragged him off to the Capitol. Finnick decides that he has to trust that she’s okay and that his father heeded his warnings and will take care of everything back home, because if he doesn’t, the fear and doubt will paralyze him.

The lust in Melissa’s eyes and the anticipation in Henrik’s combine with the alcohol and the chaos of Finnick’s emotional state. Ignoring Henrik’s hand, Finnick sits. Leaning across the table, he grabs a piece of chicken from Henrik’s plate and, setting his drink on the table, takes a bite. “I hope you don’t mind,” he lies past a dazzling smile. “I haven’t really eaten since breakfast yesterday.” Turning that smile on Melissa, he says, “And no, you can’t take me home. I’m a tribute. I can’t leave the grounds.” Henrik blinks rapidly for a moment while to his left, Melissa’s smile slips a little. _Good. Now they’re the ones who don’t know how to act._ It feels good to have a modicum of control over his life, even if it is only an illusion.

“Mr. Odair…” Henrik begins to say something but, glancing at his wife, he trails off and Finnick, shaking his head, jumps into the gap.

“Henrik, Henrik. Please. We both know you paid a lot of money for one or both of you to have sex with me. I think we can be on a first-name basis, don’t you?” He takes another bite of chicken. Both Muhtis stare at him.

“Henrik?” Melissa sounds surprised and maybe a bit upset, although, since Finnick doesn’t know her, he can’t be sure.

Henrik’s mouth opens and closes like that of a fish. Finnick swallows a grin. “Oops. I guess Melissa wasn’t supposed to know about that part?” He reaches across the table and snags a roll from her plate, fully aware that if his mother were here, she’d smack his hand for his rudeness. He pulls the roll apart, picks up a knife and spreads butter on the still-warm bread, Henrik and Melissa watching his every move. Neither of them says anything, so Finnick eats the roll and then knocks back the rest of his drink.

“Are you finished?” Henrik asks. He seems to have dropped the pretense that Finnick’s presence is just a happy coincidence.

Finnick leans back in his chair. “No, I don’t think I am.” He looks from one to the other of them. “I’m tired. I don’t want to be here. In just under a week, I’ll be back in the arena, and the odds are these next few days are my last, and no offense intended, but I don’t want to waste that time with you.” He snags a piece of chicken from Melissa’s plate. “I know you paid for a service, Henrik, and I’ll do whatever you want me to do, but I’d appreciate it if we don’t pretend that this,” he gestures toward Henrik on one side and Melissa on the other, “is anything more than a business transaction.” Melissa leans back in her chair, a speculative expression on her face as Finnick takes another bite.

She cocks her head to one side, still studying him, and asks, “So why are you here, Finnick?”

 _I knew the alcohol was a bad idea._ Finnick swallows. “That is a good question.” He’s here because obedience to Snow has become a habit, because he can’t risk rocking the boat too early, before whatever plan Heavensbee and the rest have concocted is put into play. Finnick smiles at Melissa. “You paid for me. Why don’t _you_ tell _me_?”

“I didn’t ask why my husband made arrangements for you to be here, Finnick. If _you_ don’t want to be here, why _are_ you here? Why don’t you just leave?”

Trying to dial down the attitude a bit, Finnick considers how to respond to her question in a way that will satisfy her and yet still tell her nothing.  Henrik mutters around a mouthful of chicken, “If he leaves, I’m getting a refund.”

Finnick’s heart seems to stop and then beat again at triple time. He can’t pull enough air into his lungs. He feels the blood drain from his face at the thought of what Snow could do if Muhti asks for a refund, and it’s brought forcibly home to him that he can tell himself all he wants that Annie and his family are safe. The simple truth is that they’re not and just that quickly, the illusion of control is shattered.

Forcing his face into blank lines and his voice to remain steady, he says, “I’m not leaving.”

Melissa is still watching him. “Do you need the money so badly?”

One hand clutching a half-eaten piece of chicken and the other holding equally tightly to the arm of his chair, Finnick says, “I don’t need the money.”

“No, you wouldn’t, would you? Not if you expect to die in the arena.” She crosses her legs and takes a sip of her drink. “Your family, then?”

“Enough of this.” Henrik stands, interrupting her and looking down at Finnick. “I didn’t pay for you to talk.”

“Henrik.” Melissa’s voice is quiet. “Sit down, please.” When he resumes his seat, she continues, “I assume Finnick is a belated birthday gift for me?”

“Yes, although it wasn’t meant to be belated.”

“Then hush, dear. Talking with him is part of my gift.”

The band of fear squeezing Finnick’s heart and lungs loosens along with his grip on both the chair and the chicken, which drops to the floor. He leans over to pick it up, using the distraction to try to resume his “Capitol face.” Straightening, no longer hungry, he drops the chicken into his empty glass.

“Finnick?”

“Melissa.” He’s surprised to see sympathy in her expression.

She glances at her husband who waves one hand in a do-what-you-want gesture. Smiling fondly at him, she turns back toward Finnick. “I suppose I’ve had a bit of a crush on you for years. I’d hate to completely waste Rik’s lovely gesture.”

 _Here it comes._ Finnick leans back in his chair with a classic Finnick Odair Smirk on his face in lieu of commenting on the loveliness of Rik’s gesture. But Melissa surprises him again.

“All I want is one kiss. Do that for me and you’re free to go.”

“That’s it?” Finnick asks, surprised. Henrik leans back in his chair and wipes his mouth with a napkin, finished with his meal. When he notices Finnick looking at him, one brow raised in question, he shrugs as if to say, “I’m out of this. It’s between you and her.”

“That’s it,” Melissa confirms.

Finnick almost laughs. “Easy enough.” The least he can do is kiss her breathless, if that’s all she wants. He stands and takes the step he needs to reach her chair, holding out his hand. She takes it and as she stands, he pulls her body flush with his, slides an arm around her waist, spreads his hand over the small of her back. He threads the fingers of his other hand through her hair as he cups the back of her head.  Stroking his thumb along her jaw, he brushes his lips lightly over hers before taking her mouth with his.

She opens her mouth with no urging from him, meets his tongue with her own. When he finally pulls back from her, he has to hold her up until she’s steady on her feet again.

“Oh.” She straightens as he drops his hand from her back. “Your girlfriend is a lucky woman,” she says, voice pitched so only he can hear.

He knows she’s fishing, but he answers her anyway. “She might as well be a widow.” And with that, Finnick turns and walks away, leaving them both staring after him.

xXx

Annie doesn’t know how long she sits there beside Mags with the others who remain in the room staring at her. _Snow… Snow… Snow…_ She shivers. Getting up from her place on the couch, Annie walks again to the window, looks down into the courtyard. She’s so cold, she feels as though she’ll never be warm again. Leaning her forehead against the window, she wills herself not to cry.

The lights below highlight the fountain in the middle of the courtyard. She watches the water shimmer and dance, watches the branches and leaves, brilliant green where the light touches them, of the potted trees as they sway, caught in whatever bit of breeze snakes its way down past the towers of the Hunger Games complex.

Behind her Martin takes a step toward her but Mags reaches out with her cane to stop him. The strange man asks in a loud whisper, “Who is she?”

“Annie Cresta,” Martin answers, still standing where Mags stopped him. Annie watches it all reflected in the glass. She hears the concern in Martin’s voice and it reminds her of Cinna. “Annie, this is Rafe Simons,” Martin continues, his tone that of an adult trying not to frighten a small child. “He’s Finnick’s stylist. And this,” he nods his head toward the woman, “is Rialla Chen, Mags’ stylist.”

Annie turns away from the window, toward these strangers, but doesn’t greet them. _So this is the man who sends Finnick off to his… clients._ She stares at Rafe and he stares back at her and Annie can see it in his eyes that he knows exactly what Mags meant when she said “Snow.”

Phineas LaSalle's voice breaks the tableau. “Come along now, everyone!" he calls to them from down the hall. "Our dinner is ready and we don’t want it to get cold.” Rafe quickly makes his escape toward the dining room and Rialla follows, her pace much less hurried. Martin helps Mags to her feet and the two of them trail the stylists, but when he realizes Annie isn’t following, Martin stops and looks back at her.

“I’m not hungry,” Annie says. “I’ll wait here for Finnick.”

Mags thumps her cane on the floor and Martin looks first at her, then back to Annie. “At least come sit with us while we eat, Annie. The first place Finnick will head is the dining room.”

Annie raises one eyebrow. “The first place Finnick will be is right here. Everyone has to pass through here to get anywhere else.”

Mags pokes Martin and says something Annie can’t make out. It takes a second or two for Martin to decipher it, too, but then he nods. “Mags is right. Finnick isn’t going to want you to see him when he gets back. He’ll want to get cleaned up and changed first.”

Closing her eyes, she leans her forehead on the cold window once more. “I suppose that’s true,” she says, feeling hollowed out. She thinks of how, when he arrives home from the Capitol, he never seeks her out until he has at least removed all physical traces of the Capitol and sometimes not even then. On at least two occasions, it was more than a day before he came to her.

When Annie opens her eyes again, she sees Martin's reflection holding out his free hand to her, but she doesn’t take it; instead she pushes away from the window and walks past him with her hands covering as much of her bare arms as she can, still cold.

“Aw, come on, Annie,” he says to her back. “I was hoping to walk into the room with two beautiful women on my arms.” Annie stops and turns to look at him. She can’t help a tiny smile when Mags whacks his foot with her cane.

“You… _married_.” She waves Martin and Annie toward the dining room. “Shower. Change. Supper.” With that pronouncement and a nod of her head, Mags makes her way to the room Annie used earlier for her own shower and change of clothes.

Martin sighs heavily. “I cannot catch a break,” he says, pouting. He holds out his hand to Annie a second time and she lets him escort her to the dining room.

The others are already seated, chattering away, mostly about the other tributes and their costumes from the opening ceremonies. They’ve already uncovered the plates of food the Training Center staff delivered and each one appears to be different. While Annie is curious as to what they’ve given her, since there is a still-covered plate with her name on it, the smell of it all makes her a little sick.

Before Martin takes the seat in front of his designated plate, he pours glasses of water for himself, Mags, and Annie, and pushes a bowl of fruit within Annie’s reach in a not-so-subtle attempt to get her to eat something, guessing correctly that she won’t take a bite of whatever was prepared for her. If she thought she could keep it down, she’d eat an orange, but she’s too wired, too stressed. She looks up at Martin and shakes her head. He shrugs and sits, digging into his own meal.

“It appears they took good care of you at the Remake Center, Annie,” Phineas observes between bites of some kind of pasta. “You look much better now than you did this morning.”

Annie shrugs. “I suppose so.”

“I took the liberty of ordering a meal for you, so I hope you’ll enjoy it.” She doesn’t respond, just looks down at the plate in front of her. She doesn’t want to talk to him, doesn’t want to talk to any of them. They’re all watching her. Not knowing what else to do, she takes a sip of water.

Martin lays down his fork. “Wait a minute.” Annie looks over at him, startled at the thread of anger in his voice. “You knew she was here and you didn’t say anything?” he says to Phineas.

Phineas cocks his feathered head to one side, his gaze darting back and forth between Martin and Annie. “Why would I?”

“You stupid…” Martin bites back whatever he was going to say and continues instead with, “You were there. You saw that blow she took. It didn’t occur to you that the rest of us might be worried about her?”

The other Capitol citizens whisper to each other on their side of the table. Phineas shrugs. “I don’t know what you’re so upset about, Perch. She’s here now and she’s perfectly fine.” He takes another bite of pasta.

Annie shakes her head when Martin opens his mouth to say something else. They’re all still looking at her and she fights the urge to just sink under the table and hide. She doesn’t want to be here, doesn’t want to be on display or to listen to these people, well-meaning or otherwise, talk about her.

Mags’ arrival spares Annie further anxiety. The old woman pauses in the doorway, then heads over to the chair between Annie and Martin, looking much more comfortable than before in a loose shirt and pajama pants. Martin rises to pull her chair out for her and she hooks her cane on the back of it as she sits. Looking over at Annie, she orders, “Eat.” Annie just stares at her place setting and takes another sip of water.

Conversation resumes around the table, thankfully no longer revolving around her, although they all, stylists and prep teams alike, keep sneaking glances at her. At least they’re no longer staring. Martin and Phineas are talking about the training schedule in the morning when Mags’ stylist looks across the table at Annie and doesn’t look immediately away.

“Annie, dear,” she says, “your hair is lovely and so long.” She smiles. “Would you let me style it for you?”

_Strange hands washing her, dressing her, touching her… Strange voices discussing her as though she wasn’t there, as though she couldn’t understand what they were saying about her… “Pretty, but so provincial.” “Too thin.” “Weak.” “Won’t survive.”_

Annie blinks, gasps, reaches for her water glass, but her hand is shaking. They’ll see it. She blinks again, pulling her hand back to her lap, where the table blocks their view. Mags touches her shoulder and says something across the table to Rialla, but Annie doesn’t understand it. Rialla seems to, though; she nods her head and returns to her conversation with the woman to her left.

Annie shoots a grateful look toward Mags, but notices movement past the old woman and gasps again. She abruptly pushes back from the table, setting her chair to wobbling, but it doesn’t fall as she runs past Mags to the man in the doorway.

“Finnick!” Annie throws herself at him where he fills the space, looking stunned at the sight of her. He lifts his arms to catch and hold her, buries his face in her hair.

“Annie. I was so afraid…”

“You’re here. I missed you so much.” He smells crisp and clean and his hair is damp where it brushes against her arms.

Still holding her close, he reaches up to smooth the hair from her forehead, touches the spot where the Peacekeepers hit her. She reaches up to stroke his lips with the tips of her fingers and he kisses them.

“They wouldn’t tell me where you were, if you were okay,” he says and brushes his lips against her forehead. “I was beginning to think you were dead and that’s why no one would say anything.”

“I had a concussion, but they fixed it in the Remake Center.” The knot of anxiety gripping her loosens even as his arms tighten around her. Her eyes drift closed and he rests his forehead against hers, then shifts to kiss her. Their mouths meet and she kisses him hungrily, greedily. His mouth tastes of mint.

There’s a whisper, quickly hushed by someone else, and Annie slowly becomes aware again that there are others in the room. Most of them are staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed at her and Finnick as the two of them cling to each other as though they’ll drown if they let go.

Finnick pulls back a little, whispers, a wicked glint in his eyes, “What do you think they’ll do if we just clear a space on the table and go at it?”

She whispers back, “I think their heads might explode.” She bites her lower lip to keep from laughing; Finnick’s eyes track the movement, fixing there.

“I take it none of you knew about Annie and Finnick?” Martin asks. Rafe shuts his mouth with an audible click of teeth as he stares at them. They all stare at them. Annie feels like she should be used to it by now, but she still hides her face between Finnick’s neck and shoulder.

“Oh! They’re just like Katniss and Peeta!” the younger girl on Mags’ prep team says, and Annie feels Finnick start to shake. She glances up at his face, sees that he’s fighting hard not to laugh. He grins down at her.

Rafe asks, “How long have you been… together?”

Finnick doesn’t answer him right away and Annie has no intention of answering at all. With another quick kiss, Finnick finally releases Annie, all save for her hand, and they take their seats at the dinner table, side by side. Annie moves her chair closer to Finnick, who looks across at Rafe, shrugs and says, “Four years, give or take.” She knows he’s not comfortable talking about it; neither is she.

“Why have you kept this lovely girl a secret?” Rialla asks, and Finnick squeezes Annie’s hand under the table but doesn’t answer.

Annie squeezes his hand back and bumps her shoulder against his when his stomach growls loudly enough that everyone’s attention is momentarily diverted from the two of them as a couple. “What?” Finnick asks. “I’ve barely had anything to eat since breakfast yesterday.” He lifts the cover from his plate with his free hand, discarding the cover in favor of a fork, and begins to devour the fried fish on his plate.

Taking her cue from Finnick, Annie lifts the cover from hers. Beneath it is steaming fish stew in a bowl made of bread. She tears off a piece of the bowl, suddenly ravenous, and smiles at Finnick. He doesn’t let go of her hand as they eat, he with his right hand, she with her left, and they both just let the conversation swirl around them, not participating, not paying attention. Several times Martin or Phineas tries to pull one or the other of them into a discussion of strategy, while Mags just shakes her head, no doubt knowing how futile that is.

Annie nibbles at her food and watches Finnick; he eats as though he’ll never see another meal like this again. Studying his face, looking at his hands, she sees that the bruises are gone as though they’d never existed, but his lower lip looks as though it’s been bitten, a little bit swollen, a little bit red. It might have been from her, but… When he lays down his fork and wipes his mouth with his napkin, she doesn’t think about what she does – _Snow… Snow… Snow…_ – she reaches out and touches his lip with her fingertip.

“Was it bad?” she asks, afraid to look at his eyes and see the answer there.

“Was it…? Annie…”

She meets his eyes then. “When you didn’t come back with the others, I asked where you were. Mags told me you were late because of Snow.”

He exhales a huff of breath and closes his eyes, but then he opens them again and lifts her hand to his mouth. “Annie, nothing happened.”

She shakes her head. “Your lip…”

He kisses her hand and smiles. “She asked for a kiss. Told me if I gave her that, I was free to go.”

Annie frowns. “Just a kiss?” As though that weren’t bad enough…

“Just a kiss.”

She knows he’s not telling her everything, but he doesn’t try to avoid her gaze, and she doesn’t think he’s lying to her. She pulls her hand from his, cups his cheek, strokes his lower lip with her thumb, then leans into him and kisses his lip. Before she can pull back, he cups the back of her head with one hand and slants his mouth over hers, catching her lower lip in his teeth.

He breaks the kiss and his eyes are intense with desire. “Let’s get out of here.”

Annie nods, wanting him as much as he wants her.

“Are you kidding?? Martin says. "We’re not going to get anything useful out of either of those two tonight. _Maybe_ over breakfast.” When Martin’s voice breaks into Annie’s consciousness, she realizes that Phineas said something to both her and Finnick that neither of them noticed.

Taking that as a sign, Annie tells them all goodnight. Finnick’s hand firmly in hers, she stands up from the table and heads for the door, pulling him along with her.

The picture of innocence, Finnick says, “I guess it’s bedtime.”

They hit the wall outside the dining room and Finnick pins Annie there with his body. She slips her hands under his shirt so she can feel the warmth of his skin. His mouth and hands are everywhere, it seems, light touches that make her shiver, heavier, more insistent touches that make her moan.

“Need you,” he whispers into her mouth, over and over, continues when he kisses her throat and collarbones. Then, “Which room is yours?”

Since she doesn’t have one yet, she says, “Yours is closer.” Without another word, still kissing, they slide along the wall until they reach his door. While he fumbles with the doorknob, she tries to pull his shirt off, but his arms get tangled in it. Taking a step back from the door, still kissing Annie, he finally frees himself, tossing the shirt away to land wherever. It takes him another second or two to get the door open.

Once inside his room, he kicks the door shut, pulling her dress up and over her head, dropping it to the floor, pushing her back against the door.

“You realize this whole place is riddled with bugs and cameras, right?” His voice is rough, a little breathless.

“Don’t care,” she tells him as she works the button at the waistband of his pants. “Want you.” They quickly remove the rest of their clothing and as soon as he can, Finnick lifts her up, rocks against her as she wraps her legs around his hips. He pushes into her with a groan, eliciting a gasp from her.

“We’ll probably be on pay-per-view in a matter of hours,” he whispers against her shoulder.

“They can call it ‘The Hunger Games After Dark,’” she responds, although the ‘dark’ is a little shaky at the end as he pounds into her, rattling the door. His mouth on her neck, sucking, he tightens his arms around her and backs away from the door, carrying her with him. He stumbles before they reach the bed and they end up on the floor, Annie on her back, Finnick kneeling over her. She pulls him down and he pushes into her again, sets up a rhythm of long pulls back followed by quick, hard thrusts.

“Yes! There! _Yesss_!” She arches up, taking him deeper as she shatters around him, only dimly aware of him crying out with his own release a moment later.

After a time, he rolls off her, rolls to his knees, takes her hand and pulls her up with him when he stands. He leads her to his bed and they slide beneath the covers. She curls onto her side and he fits himself around her. They drift off to sleep and there are no bad dreams that night, for either of them.


	13. Devils All Around You

**Chapter Thirteen – Devils All Around You**

Finnick rests his forehead against Annie’s, their hearts racing in tandem. He’s still inside her, still covering her body with his when he hears the door close loudly as Rafe steps into the room. The stylist lays something on the end of the bed and crosses to the window to open the curtains, allowing the morning sun in, and cold anger surges through Finnick.

“ _Get out_ ,” he snarls even as he pulls the sheets up to cover Annie and himself from Rafe’s prying eyes. He’s sure the man entered the room while he and Annie were still in the middle of it, that even if Rafe hadn’t meant to, he watched them for however long it took for the sounds of his presence and the scent of his cologne to penetrate Finnick’s consciousness, for Rafe to realize that Finnick was aware of him and to make extra noise in an attempt to make it look like he’d only just arrived.

“Baby, it’s okay,” Annie whispers, her gaze trapping Finnick’s. “He won’t hurt us.” Her eyes are clear, unclouded by fear and the only worry he sees there is for him. He’s a little surprised, given that she only met Rafe the day before, but maybe he shouldn’t be. Annie sees things that others don’t. Rafe won’t do or say anything to deliberately cause him or Annie harm; these past couple of days he saw and heard too much. Finnick knows Rafe: he won’t forget that scene with Snow.

Pushing his anger back down, forcing himself to relax, he calmly asks Rafe, “Can you give us a minute?” Her gaze still holding Finnick’s, Annie tilts her head, lightly kisses his mouth.

Rafe drapes the shirt Finnick abandoned in the hallway the night before over the footboard. “Certainly, Finnick. You’ve missed breakfast, I’m afraid, and training was scheduled to start at ten.” His tone is carefully neutral.

The door closes behind him with a quiet snick and Annie kisses Finnick again, this time a quick peck on the mouth as she tries to buck him off. “Move. You’re heavy.” She smiles when she says it and all he wants is to stay here with her, so instead of obeying her right away, he rocks against her and sucks her lower lip into his mouth, just to give himself a few more precious seconds before rolling to her side.

But then Finnick reluctantly swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands in one smooth motion. He runs his fingers through his hair vigorously and when he looks over at Annie again, she’s pulling on the shirt Rafe left on the footboard. He heads into the bathroom for a quick shower, but before he starts the water, he pops his head back out. “Join me?”

Sitting in the middle of the bed, her legs curled under her, Annie smiles at him and shakes her head no. “You were supposed to be in training ten minutes ago. If I join you, you’ll be even later.”

He grins. “I have no problem with that.”

“Go, Finnick.”

“It’s your loss…”

Again she smiles and his heart trips in his chest. “I think we both know it’s _your_ loss.”

“Oh, Miss Cresta, you wound me.” Laughing, he closes the door and steps into the shower. He turns the water on hot and hard, sets the timer for three minutes, adds in a massaging spray and lets it pound into his shoulders and back. He’s still a little tense from Rafe’s earlier intrusion, but between Annie’s smile and the hot water, the tension fades.

The water shuts off automatically and rather than restarting it during the pause before the drying sequence begins, which is what he usually does, he closes his eyes and just lets it run, bathing him in warm air instead of water. He’d rather spend the time with Annie.

Stepping out of the shower, he hears voices on the other side of the door. One of them is Annie’s, the other is male, not clear enough or loud enough for him to identify with certainty, but he suspects it’s Rafe; when he opens the door, his speculation is confirmed. A tray from the dispenser, laden with fruit and bread, is on the table near the door and Annie, still sitting in the middle of the bed and wearing Finnick’s shirt, is peeling an orange. She glances his way before returning to her task.

His back to Finnick, Rafe pours a cup of coffee from a pot on a second tray. “How do you take your coffee, Annie?”

“Black, please.” He extends the cup to her and turns to fill a second cup as Annie thanks him and places hers on the bedside table. She watches the steam rise from it for a moment before breaking her newly peeled orange into its component sections.

“How long have you and Finnick known each other?” Rafe asks over his shoulder as he removes the lid from a small covered bowl.

“Five years,” she tells him. “We met the first time I was reaped.” Her voice is hard, but steadier than Finnick would have expected it to be. She pops an orange slice into her mouth, her eyes on Rafe, who blushes and turns away to busy himself with the coffee he just poured.

“Oh.” He stirs in three sugar cubes. “I’m sorry.” The way he’s hunched in on himself, Finnick thinks he’s probably apologizing for more than just asking an inadvertently awkward question. “It never occurred to me that you didn’t know each other before.”

“Why? Because we’re both from District Four?” Still watching Rafe, she eats another slice. “It’s a big district. We don’t all know each other.”

“I didn’t mean…”

Taking pity on his stylist, who’s out of his depth, Finnick steps further into the room. Walking naked to the bed, he picks up the black briefs at the top of the stack of clothes Rafe laid there for him. “Stop talking, Rafe.” Glancing at Annie, innocently sucking at an orange slice, Finnick pulls on the underwear. “You’ll only make it worse for yourself.” Rafe shuts his mouth and stirs the coffee. Once Finnick is dressed in the black pants and shirt that comprise his training uniform, form-fitting and comfortable, Rafe holds out the cup.

“Thanks.” He takes a sip, sweet and creamy, and grabs a slice of bread from the tray; the bread is fluffy and still warm from the oven, swirled with cinnamon and raisins. Sitting on the edge of the bed in front of Annie to eat his bread, he offers her a bite, but she refuses and instead feeds him a slice of sweet, tangy orange as he pulls on socks and shoes. Taking another sip of additive-rich coffee, he turns to Annie and asks, “What’re you doing while I’m in training?” She shrugs.

“No one gave me a schedule. I’ll ask Martin?”

Finnick nods and stands. “Martin’s a good man.” He bends down to kiss Annie before heading to the door, another piece of bread balanced atop his coffee cup. “You can trust him.”

Annie nods. “I do.”

At the threshold, Finnick pauses, then turns back. While her self-confidence this morning is a good thing, a far cry from the state she was in the last time he saw her in this setting – maybe not _exactly_ this settting, given that they didn’t share a bed the last time – it worries him. “Annie, promise me you won’t go anywhere alone.” He knows it’s paranoia, that Snow isn’t going to do anything to her here in the Training Center, not before the Games even begin, but that doesn’t make him any less afraid.

“Finnick, the worst has happened. I’m here. I’m in the Capitol.”

Suddenly, it’s as though they’re walking a tightrope over an endless abyss. “The worst hasn’t even begun.”

xXx

The door closes behind Finnick, his parting words repeating endlessly in Annie’s head. The rest of her orange is beside her, forgotten in the midst of its shredded peel. Still sitting in the middle of Finnick’s bed, wearing only the soft shirt he abandoned the night before, Annie wraps her arms around her knees and stares at the door through which he just left. She shivers. His voice was full of the things they’d done to him here, all the things he’d tried to keep her safe from over the years.

_“How long have you been… together?”_

_“Four years, give or take.”_

_“Why have you kept this lovely girl a secret?”_

_The sound of waves breaking on the rocks. The scent of salt and seaweed. The cries of gulls, of terns. Soft, cool sand shifting beneath her feet. The breeze playing with her hair._

She had approached him with her heart in her throat, that day that seems a lifetime ago. He needed to talk to her, he'd said. He’d sounded so serious and he wouldn’t meet her eyes.

The entire time of his most recent visit to the Capitol, three solid weeks, all she wanted was for him to come home. And then one morning, when she went for her walk along the beach, he was there. He seemed happy to see her. He smiled at her, blinding her to everything else. He took her hand and they walked together and all was right in her world. She was whole again, not some broken thing, discarded and forgotten.

And then he kissed her. He kissed her and everything changed. It was something she’d wanted for so long. She was afraid to make that first move, and then she didn’t have to. For that one moment in time, there in his arms, she was happy.

But then he backed away from her like she burned him. He said he was sorry and he left her there on the beach, staring after his retreating back until he dissolved in her tears as she wondered what she did wrong.

He wasn’t on the beach when she walked the next morning. Or the morning or afternoon or evening that followed.

For two days, nothing. Then the knock on her door and “Annie, we need to talk.” By the time she ran up to her room for a sweater against the chill in the air, he was gone. She sank down on the top step of her porch and cried. And then she got angry. _If he’s going to tell me he doesn’t want me, then he can damn well do it to my face_ , she thought and stalked down the steps to the beach. She saw him in the distance, sitting on the sand, staring out to sea.

When she reached him, the sun was low in the sky, but not yet touching the horizon. The clouds caught the dying light and turned it into brilliant color, reflected in the water. His skin was bathed in gold, his hair turned to bronze and copper flame, and he was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

She stood there watching him, wanting him. “You said you needed to talk to me?” Her voice was flat, emotionless. He wasn’t surprised she was there, that she’d found him.

“Yeah.” He still wouldn’t look at her. “Annie, I …”

“Is she pretty?” she blurted out

That made him look. “What?” he asked, frowning.

“What am I saying? Of course she’s pretty.” She turned away from him to look outward over the sea. He was always surrounded by beautiful women in the Capitol. Beautiful women. Beautiful men. All of them more interesting than some crazy, broken girl back home. “Why did you kiss me?”

“Annie.”

“And why did you run away?” She pulled her sweater more tightly around her. “I know I’m not as sophisticated as your friends in the Capitol, and you can have anyone you want, but—”

“Annie. Stop.” She stopped, not because of the words, but because of the raw sound of his voice. “Please sit with me.” She turned to face him and he looked as miserable as she felt. He met her eyes then and she was surprised to see tears in his. “Annie, don’t go,” he pleaded. As the blood-red sun kissed the sea, she sat beside him on the sand. She watched as it dipped lower, began to sink beneath the waves, and she wondered if there might be some way she could go with it as the silence between them stretched.

“What did you want to say to me, Finnick?” she finally asked.

He didn’t answer her right away, but then the words came out of him in a rush. “I don’t have any friends in the Capitol and I don’t want just anyone.” That made her look at him. “I want you.” He looked away again. “I ran because I was afraid.”

“Afraid?”

“You crept up on me, Annie Cresta. I don’t want to feel this way.” She turned toward him, held her breath as he continued. “I never wanted to fall in love. Not with you. Not with anyone. I can’t afford it.” And then he whispered something that sounded like “I can’t keep it.”

“What are you saying, Finnick?”

“I love you, Annie. But I’m not free.”

“I don’t understand. If you have a girlfriend…”

He shook his head. “It’s not that. I don’t have a girlfriend.” He scrubbed a hand over his face and it occurred to her that he was wiping away tears. “My life isn’t mine. I don’t have a life.”

“Finnick…” The words he said made no sense.

“I’m sorry, Annie. I’m making a mess of this. I’m sorry.” He moved to face her, took her hands in his, looked into her eyes. His seemed to glow with some inner light, although she knew it was only the reflection of the sunset behind her and maybe the tears that still threatened. “I want to spend every minute of every day with you,” he told her, “but I can’t. I have to go to the Capitol when he summons me.” He still held her hands, but his gaze slid away from hers. “I have to… be with whoever he tells me to be with.”

She frowned. “’Be with?’ What are you saying?”

His grip on her hands tightened. “He sells me, Annie.”

Her eyes widened in shock. “Why are you telling me this?” she whispered.

“Because I’m selfish. I want to be with you, Annie. Only you. But not under false pretenses.” His grip on her hands tightened. “I can’t be faithful to you, at least not physically. And for us to ever be together, it would have to be a secret, because if he ever found out about it…”

“Who?”

“…he’d hurt you. He’d use you against me. Or… Or he’d use me against you. Annie, you’re a victor, too. Out of sight, out of mind, but if we were together and he found out about us, then he’d sell you, too." He reached up to stroke her cheek. "You’re so beautiful…”

She still didn’t know “who,” but by that point, she wasn’t really listening anymore. Sifting through the ugliness implied in the things he’d said, one thing shone through: “You love me?”

He lifted her hands, kissed first one and then the other, turned her right hand over and kissed her palm. “I love you, Annie Cresta. With everything that’s in me.”

Rafe, still standing awkwardly at the end of the bed, reaches down to pick up Annie’s dress from the floor and drapes it over the footboard. She jumps. Like the orange on the bed beside her, she had forgotten he was here.

“I should go,” Rafe says and walks to the door. She watches him, remembering the things Finnick told her about him over the years, that for all he wants fame and fortune as a stylist, he’s weak and easily influenced, that this is why Snow kept him on with Finnick for so long. He wouldn’t ask questions, wouldn’t rock the boat. His hand on the knob, Rafe stops dead at the sound of Annie’s voice.

“You’ve been his stylist since his Games. For all of his visits to the Capitol. When he was still a boy, and later, when President Snow started selling him.” Rafe rests his forehead against the door and she knows that he understands what she’s saying. “You always make him look his best.” Rafe turns to face her; there are tears on his face and he looks like he wants to run and hide, a look Annie knows well, albeit from the inside. “You’re a part of all the things that hurt him. Finnick forgives you for that.” Her voice is still calm, which surprises her, since inside she’s screaming. “But I don’t.” He looks up at that and she’s sure it’s an accident when his eyes meet hers. “I don’t forgive you. I can’t.”

“I’m sorry,” he tells her. It’s a word she’s heard from him before; she wonders if he even knows what it means.

“It’s not enough,” she tells him, low and clear and hard. Her gaze holds him against the door as if impaled until finally she closes her eyes, releasing him, and he flees the room. She wonders if Rafe will become her stylist, too, now that she’s here, if Snow will sell her body as he does Finnick’s, a thing Finnick has always been afraid of.


	14. In the Eye of the Storm

**Chapter Fourteen – In the Eye of the Storm**

Only about half the tributes are in the huge gymnasium beneath the Training Center when Finnick arrives, which surprises him, since he’s a good forty minutes late. _Apparently I’m not the only one with an attitude problem._ Mags is long since there, watching Linna and Trayn from District 6, both morphling addicts, as they paint each other’s faces with the brightest colors at the camouflage station. They appear to be enjoying themselves and Finnick can’t begrudge them that. In a way, he envies them.

Closing his eyes for a moment, he sees Mags, ten years younger and standing straight, unbowed and strong beside Linna, herself clear-eyed and laughing at something the older woman said. Most years, the tributes and instructors are the only ones in the gym, but the year of his Games, the mentors accompanied their tributes to training, acting as secondary instructors and in some cases sparring partners. Linna was a morphling addict even then, but she kept it under control, the better to coach her tribute, a wiry girl three years Finnick’s elder and a strong contender. He can’t remember the girl’s name, isn’t sure he ever knew it, but he still feels her blood coating his hands, hears her screams in his sleep. He shakes his head, physically shaking off the memory.

Brutus and Enobaria are talking to Cashmere and Gloss at the edged weapons station, Brutus gesturing emphatically with a large hunting knife. It’s pretty clear they’re already in an alliance, one Finnick wants no part of, not this time around. At fourteen, his own desire to show off his skills with a knife and in hand-to-hand combat had combined with the strength and confidence of the pack to dazzle him, make him want to be a part of it; at twenty-four, he knows it for the self-centered arrogance and fear that it really is, the selfish desire to live at all costs. He wants to live now just as much as he did then, but ten years of experience have taught him that there are things worth dying for.

The sound of retching grabs his attention and Finnick turns to see Hamilton from 5 lose his breakfast in the corner. He was one of the victors in the lobby the night before, self-medicating with his drug of choice, wine. Brutus jumps away with a sound of disgust and Enobaria calmly tells Hamilton that he’s a dead man if he gets any of it on her shoes. Two men in Training Center uniforms descend on the man, lifting him bodily from the floor while an Avox moves in to clean up the mess. Finnick waits for them to pass and heads over to where Katniss is stuck in her attempt at tying a semi-difficult knot.

When he’s still more than ten feet away, it’s clear that she made a novice mistake, but it’s one that should be easy enough for her to fix. The instructor spots him and Finnick puts a finger to his lips as he changes course to approach Katniss from behind. He slides his arms around her and corrects the lay of the rope in her left hand, then slips the end in her right hand through the loop, which will allow her to finish the knot on her own. If she paid attention, she won’t make the same mistake again.

She thanks him by shrugging him off with an annoyed glare and he steps back, his hands held high in surrender. But then he flashes her a cheesy grin and twitches the rope from her hands. Quickly coiling it into a noose, he slips it over his head and pretends to hang himself, sticking his tongue out at her in the process. The instructor laughs, but Katniss just shakes her head, still annoyed. Finnick figures she’s determined to dislike him, but he doesn’t miss the amusement in her eyes, there and then gone, so he counts it as a minor win and moves on to join Seeder and Chaff where they’re studying a bunch of plants laid out on a table.

“I’m surprised to see you here, Finnick,” Seeder tells him with a smile and a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Here with the plants or here in training?”

“Either. Both. Isn’t it early for you?” She glances at the clock over the door at the far end of the gym.

“Not really,” he responds. It’s well after 11:00, closer to lunch than breakfast. “Now, if I had been allowed to leave the compound last night, you might get a different answer.” He winks at her and grins.

“Hear you’ve got yourself a real pretty mentor, son,” Chaff says. “No need to leave if you’ve got something worth hanging around for.”

Finnick freezes, the grin still pasted on his face even as he feels the blood drain away, leaving him momentarily light-headed. Seeder slaps Chaff on the back of the head. “Stop it, Chaff.”

“Where’d you hear that?” Finnick asks, trying for nonchalance, pretty sure he’s failing miserably.

Chaff laughs. “Oh, man, the look on your face!” But then he sobers, squeezing Finnick’s shoulder with his one hand. “I heard it from Martin last night, son. Your girl’s fine. Martin and Haymitch’ll keep an eye on her.”

Finnick takes a deep breath and Seeder pats him on the arm as she reaches past him to pick up what looks like a palm frond, one with some pretty wicked serrations along the edges of its leaves. The thing looks like it could be easily turned into a weapon, or rather into multiple weapons, an opinion confirmed when Seeder tests the edge of a leaf against her thumb and bright droplets of blood well up in the small but ragged slice it leaves behind.

“Will you look at that?” Chaff says, and at first Finnick thinks he’s talking about the leafy knives Seeder still holds in her hand, but then he looks toward where the older man points. Johanna is stripped down and oiling her body at the wrestling station. Chaff isn’t the only one looking, Finnick sees as he glances around the room. Brutus, Peeta, Cashmere, anyone who still has a pulse is watching her.

“That girl…” Seeder says, shaking her head, and returns to studying the plants.

Beetee, not at all interested in Johanna, drifts over to join Katniss at the fire-making station, which amuses Finnick to no end. Beetee has a pulse, of course, but he’d really only be interested in Johanna if electrical current ran through her veins instead of blood. Wiress trails after Beetee, looking lost for a moment until she focuses on Katniss, then hurries toward her and Beetee.

Past the tributes from 3 and 12, Finnick spots Mags at the archery range and, saying goodbye to Chaff and Seeder, he joins her. While the man running the range explains to Mags how to string the bow she holds in her gnarled hands, Finnick picks up one of the more simple-looking bows from the display table, almost identical to the one Mags holds, and tests the feel of it. Trident, spear, knife, they’re all weapons he understands and has some proficiency with. Even a sword, he could put to good use in a fight, but a bow and arrows are alien things to him.

“That one will have much too light a pull for you,” the instructor tells him, watching from where he still stands with Mags, who lowers her bow. She says something to the instructor, then shoos him toward Finnick.

“I’m Tax.” He holds out his hand and looks at Finnick expectantly, so Finnick transfers the too-light bow to his left hand and shakes Tax’s with his right.

“I’m—”

“Finnick Odair. Yes. I know.” Tax smiles and doesn’t release Finnick’s hand as he reaches over the table toward a black and red bow, much heavier looking than the one Finnick had picked up, but still not one of the monsters with pulleys and multiple strings and laser sights that line the wall behind the table. _There’s no way one of those’ll be available in the arena_ , Finnick thinks as Tax hands him the black and red bow. “Try this one,” the archery instructor says as he pulls a sheath of arrows from a stack at one end of the table and turns Finnick toward the targets.

Finnick raises a brow at Tax’s unnecessary touch, but doesn’t call him on it. He sees from the look in Mags’ eyes that she noticed it, too, and is amused. Raising the bow in his left hand, he takes an arrow from the sheath and sets it to the string, but before he can do anything else, Tax comes up behind him.

“No, Finnick, like this,” he says as he slips his arms around him and pushes a leg between Finnick’s to correct his stance. Finnick shoots a look toward Mags, who watches with raised brows. Finnick smirks at her with an exaggerated roll of his eyes.

He could step away from Tax, maybe ask him not to get so close, but what would be the point? He would only antagonize the man needlessly and, unfamiliar as he is with anything but the absolute basics of archery, he’d lose a potentially valuable tool in the arena, so instead he lets the man guide him, shooting the first three or four arrows together.

Finnick and Mags spend the next half hour or so at the archery range, by the end of which Finnick is consistently hitting the target, if not actually hitting near the bull’s eye. Mags gives up early, not having the strength to pull the string more than a half dozen times, each pull shakier than the last, but she stays to watch Finnick and to listen to the pointers Tax gives him.

Mags applauds when one of Finnick’s arrows, just a little too far to the left, kisses the bull’s eye. Finnick grins at her and nocks another arrow. As he adjusts his aim slightly to try to account for that last little bit, Tax steps in close yet again, but it’s one time too many. Finnick steps away and lowers the bow, removes the arrow from the string.

“Look, Tax, I appreciate the instruction,” he begins, but the call for the tributes to break for lunch interrupts him.

“Finn,” Mags says from behind him and he turns. She nods toward Tax and says, “Doesn’t _mean_ ‘thing.” He swallows the rest of what he wants to say to the man, which boils down to “stop touching me,” and without another word, he carefully replaces his bow and the sheath on the table as Tax wishes them an enjoyable meal and walks out onto the range.

“They never mean anything by it, Mags.” He glances at Tax, who retrieves arrows as he moves toward the targets. Finnick has questions, he’d like to get some ideas for improvement, but at the thought of taking more instruction from Tax, he shudders. “They never fucking do.”

xXx

Annie stays there in the middle of Finnick’s bed for a long time, staring at the closed door, listening to the noise of the prep teams and servants and the other District 4 “team” members coming and going on the other side. When it stops, it takes her a moment for the silence to sink in, for it to hit her that they’re all gone to wherever and whatever is on their agendas for the day. She blinks and looks around the room.

On the surface, it’s the same as Mags’, functional and impersonal. There’s a small table by the door and another beside the bed, a chair in the corner to the left of the dresser and pieces of abstract artwork on the walls, all of it like a room in an expensive hotel. But there are little things – a bit of braided cord beside the bedside lamp, a shell necklace hanging from the corner of a painting, the mirror that used to be above the dresser shoved behind it instead – that tell her Finnick lives here.

A set of sliding doors is open onto the closet; in Mags’ room it was filled with clothing designed for women, but here, in addition to both generic and flashier things, it contains a few items that belong to Finnick. She smiles when she recognizes the sleeve of a shirt she gave him for his birthday two years before. He wore it all the time, that fall and spring, and then it disappeared, but she never remembered to ask him what happened to it. Now she knows.

With a sigh, she looks down at herself, at Finnick’s brown shirt, then to the dress Rafe draped over the footboard of the bed. Her eyes widen as she remembers the night before, realizes she doesn’t know where her underwear ended up. She sighs again and scoops up the mound she made of bits of orange peel and drops the fragrant pieces into the nearby trash.

Rising from the bed, she drops to her knees beside it to look for her panties and, spotting them, reaches under it to grab them before picking up last night’s dress and heading into the bathroom to shower. Part of her wishes she’d taken Finnick up on his request to join him.

She’s just getting dressed when there’s a knock at the outer door, startling her. _I guess I'm not alone after all._

“Hello?” she calls as she steps from the bathroom to the bedroom, the silky dress settling into place over her hips. Her hair hangs loose down her back, still a little damp since she stepped away from the dryer mat before it was finished.

“Annie, it’s Martin. I’ve got some clothes for you.” She opens the door and stands aside for him to enter. He has a stack of clothing in his arms and a pair of shoes dangles from his right hand. “Mags sent them. She went wild, ordering up clothes in your size. I thought I was going to be completely buried under women’s clothing.” He shudders as if in horror and lays the clothes on the dresser, dropping the shoes to the floor. “She said she’s pretty sure these’ll fit, and if you don’t like them, you should pester one of the stylists into finding something for you.” He laughs. “According to Mags, either one of ‘em will fall all over themselves to dress you.”

“She said all that?” Annie asks, skeptical.

“I may be extrapolating,” Martin acknowledges.

The stack on the dresser consists of underthings, socks, shirts, pants, skirts, even another dress similar to the one she’s wearing, but in a deep gold color. She looks up at Martin.

“There’s enough here for the entire Games.”

Martin shrugs. “I just brought what she gave me.”

Frowning, Annie tells him, “I was going to order something else to wear from the other suite after I showered. I didn’t want it to look like… I mean I thought that’s where I should be staying while I’m here.” She could have ordered clothes from Finnick’s closet, but didn’t want to draw attention to herself and Finnick. She’s supposed to be Finnick’s mentor, or Mags’, either of which is laughable, but there’s a rule against “inappropriate relationships” between mentors and tributes.

“Mags had something to say about that, too.” Annie raises her brows in question. “It was along the lines of not bothering to pretend you and Finnick’ll have separate sleeping arrangements. I think there was something about a cat and an empty bag…?” She feels the blush creeping up her cheeks.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“I am,” he answers solemnly, but his blue eyes are full of laughter. Annie decides she likes Martin, is glad of the opportunity to get to know him and hopes she has a chance, under better circumstances, to get to know Angel, too. Watching the two of them throw each other around on the beach was kind of fun and it’s been a long time since Annie had any friends other than Finnick.

Looking at the clothes piled on the dresser, she thinks about what Martin said. Why should she and Finnick hide what they feel for each other? There was a reason for it, once, but under the circumstances…

Without consciously making a decision, Annie starts putting the clothes away in the dresser drawers alongside Finnick’s. As she makes room in the drawers, she pulls from the stack a pair of jeans, some socks, and underthings.

Martin, standing in the doorway watching her, asks, “Have you mentored before, Annie?”

She shakes her head no, contemplating the pros and cons of which of two shirts to change into. Either one of them will look fine with the jeans, but one is short-sleeved and the other long. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ve got enough experience for both of us.”

“Is there something we should be doing now?” she asks. She never knew what Finnick did while she was in training for her own Games. At the time, she didn’t much care, her mind on other matters.

Martin nods. “There are really only two things: negotiating possible alliances in the arena and working on a list of potential sponsors.” He winks at Annie and says, “But given that we’re dealing with Finnick, I don’t think sponsors are going to be a problem.”

“No, I suppose they won’t,” she agrees, suddenly cold, reminded again of Finnick’s popularity in the Capitol and the reasons for it. She doesn’t think depressing her was the reaction Martin was going for as she wraps her arms around herself to stop the shivering. She picks up the long-sleeved shirt.

“I guess I probably shouldn’t joke about that,” Martin says, his tone contrite. “The head doctors call it a ‘coping mechanism,’ but Elena never appreciates it, either.”

“Elena?”

“My wife.”

And then Martin’s words sink in and she looks up sharply. “Martin? Does Snow…?”

He looks away from her. “It wasn’t often and not for a long time.” Finnick told her years ago that he wasn’t the only one, but he never told her who else. Now she knows that Martin was one of them and she can’t help but wonder about the other victors, how many of them Snow has used, still uses. A sudden wave of guilt washes over her, almost crushing in its intensity. How could she have let Finnick shield her from this at his own expense?

Martin claps his hands, startling her. “Come on. I’ll give you a tour of the victors’ lounge and the control room.” He holds out his hand. “That’s where all the magic happens,” he says in a credible imitation of Caesar Flickerman.

Annie forces a weak smile, seeing that he’s determined to lighten the mood. Lifting the clothes, she says, “Let me change first. I’d love to see some magic.”

xXx

Lunch is cafeteria style, set up in a room adjacent to the gym. There are carts along the walls laden with everything from leafy green salad to some kind of heavy, cheesy casserole; Finnick takes a little bit of everything, just because he can. He carries his piled-high tray over to the single huge table Brutus, Peeta, and a couple of the others created, and pulls out a chair between Cecelia and Mags. The others fill in the gaps, leaving only a handful of chairs empty, since their tributes never showed for training or, like Hamilton, were too sick or hung over to continue. Overall, it’s fairly amicable, but there’s lots of trash talking across the table.

“Tax sure seemed attentive, Finnick,” Gloss observes, oh so casually. “What’d you do? Promise him a little one-on-one training later?”

Finnick almost chokes on his dill potatoes. _I guess last night’s truce is over._ Aloud he says with a smirk, “Jealous, Gloss? I’m sure he’d be almost as happy to give you some… _training_.”

“You’re both pretty, boys," Johanna interjects. "You can sheathe the claws now.”

Cashmere laughs at that, then laughs harder when Finnick throws his butter knife at Johanna’s head. She catches it and waggles it at him, then uses it to butter a roll.

After lunch Finnick drifts around the gym, not all that interested in continuing. He could possibly have skipped a few of the lunch offerings, because all he really wants to do is take a nap. Preferably with Annie. But he goes through the motions, wondering, too, how he’s going to make it through two more days of this. He practices a few feints and parries with Brutus at the sword station, which leaves his right arm a little numb from the force of the man’s blows, and then spends some time making fires from next to nothing at the fire-making station, but nothing keeps his attention for long.

He’s at the bug station when Mags steps in beside him and lightly touches his arm, then points to the fishing station. “’duce me Kat-niss,” she tells him. He looks across the room to where Katniss sits on the floor opposite the instructor, watching intently as the woman demonstrates how to tie a makeshift lure. Smiling down at his old mentor, Finnick offers her his arm, matching his pace to her much slower one.

“Katniss.” She looks up at her name. “This is Mags. She wanted to meet you.” The girl starts to get up from her position on the floor, but Mags waves at her to stay where she is.

“Help _sit_ , boy.”

“Anything for you, my love,” he tells her as he puts her cane under his arm and then takes her hand in his, giving her his strength to use as she lowers herself to the floor beside Katniss. He lays the cane on the floor in front of Mags and then takes a step back, watching the two of them as the instructor goes over the different things that can be used to make a hook. Katniss ends up just watching Mags rather than the instructor, who, while she isn’t bad, isn’t nearly the teacher Mags is.

Katniss follows Mags’ moves, studying the old woman herself as much as what she’s doing, and Finnick sees it on the girl’s face and in her body language the minute she makes the decision to ally with Mags. He breathes a sigh of relief; if Katniss accepts Mags, then he can use that to get her into an alliance with both of them.

When Katniss leaves, Finnick thanks Mags for working her magic and she smiles at him and holds out her hands for him to help her up. Standing, leaning on her cane, she pats him on the cheek and stumps off toward Beetee and Wiress at the hammock-making station.

He glances over at the archery range, where Tax tosses some bird-like thing into the air for Katniss to shoot. She takes it down effortlessly, as she does the next half dozen or so that follow. Finnick heads that way. He doesn’t want anything to do with Tax, but Katniss… She’s deadly poetry in motion, mesmerizing, and he’ll be perfectly happy just watching her for a while.

By the time he reaches the range, several others are there as well, forming a semi-circle behind Katniss. Tax sends more of his fake birds up, five or six of them at once, and the girl from 12 takes them all down. Finnick can’t take his eyes off her. She shoots the last target and lowers her bow, only then noticing that everyone is watching her.

 _That’s who I should be taking archery lessons from_ , Finnick decides.

Not long after that comes the announcement that training is over for the day and everyone disperses to their respective floors for dinner. Johanna and Chaff are already in the elevator when Finnick and Mags board; Chaff reaches past Finnick to press the button that holds the doors open, giving Mags extra time. Mags steps to one side of Johanna and Finnick starts to take the space at Jo’s other side, when she whispers urgently, “Kiss me.”

“What?” He looks down at her, startled, sure that he misheard her. But then she reaches up and pulls his head down so she can take his mouth. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Katniss step onto the elevator, quickly followed by Peeta and he realizes Johanna is messing with the too-innocent Katniss.

Pulling back enough to look Johanna in the eye, Finnick shakes his head at her and then slants his mouth over hers. He pushes her back against the glass wall of the elevator and kisses her thoroughly, in full view of not just their fellow passengers, but anyone down in the lobby who might look their way. By the time the elevator stops, they each have a hand at the small of the other’s back, inside their waistbands and Finnick has pushed one leg between Johanna’s. She tastes of licorice and he remembers the last station he saw her spend any time at was the edible plants.

At the sound of the chime for 4, Finnick breaks it off. “This is my floor,” he tells her with a smirk, sounding entirely unaffected. Johanna slowly opens her eyes, looking a little dazed. Katniss, on the side of the elevator by Mags, looks completely scandalized.

“Bastard,” Jo whispers, but he just winks at her and saunters off the elevator, wondering if whistling might push things too far over the top. Mags, following behind, pokes him in the back with her cane.

“Behave, boy,” she tells him.

He laughs as the elevator closes on a grinning Chaff, who winks at Finnick while Katniss and Peeta divide their attention between Finnick and Johanna. Katniss still looks a little scandalized, but Peeta looks amused and Finnick thinks he may have yet another avenue toward an alliance.

xXx

The victors’ lounge on the eleventh floor of the Headquarters building is identical in layout to the common rooms for the district floors in the adjoining Training Center, but it’s larger and there’s more furniture, and there's a smaller room Martin tells her has cots for sleeping. When Annie and Martin walk in, there are half a dozen others in the lounge, sitting in chairs or on one of the couches, critiquing a television special on the Hunger Games. They all greet Martin with varying degrees of enthusiasm and Annie with curiosity.

“Annie, these are a few of our fellow mentors this year,” he tells her, gesturing toward the group. “First up is Pierce from District Seven.” An unsmiling man with curly brown hair nods at her. “Next is Farro, District Nine.” A man who appears to be in his late fifties waves at Annie. “Lyme from Two.” A hard-looking woman glances up from a magazine and smiles, the expression transforming her. “And last is Haymitch Abernathy from Twelve.”

“So you’re Annie,” Haymitch says, looking up from his place on the couch. “The boy never mentioned you’re drop dead gorgeous.” Annie blinks, unsure how to take his frank appraisal or the tone of gruff affection in his voice.

“Finnick has told me about you.”

“Oh? None of it good, I’ll bet.” His expression doesn’t change, except for a brief flash of amusement.

Annie tilts her head, studies Haymitch’s bloodshot gray eyes and scruffy, unkempt appearance. She stares at him long enough for him to start to fidget before she says, “He told me that you and Chaff helped put him back together more than once.” Behind her, one of the other mentors makes a rude comment about last year’s Head Gamemaker, Seneca Crane, which Annie assumes is prompted by the television special. Haymitch’s gaze flickers away from Annie’s at that, but quickly returns.

“Kid never deserved any of it.”

Lyme tosses her magazine – _Modern Arms and Armor_ – onto the table in front of the couch and says, “None of them do.”

A man walks down a flight of stairs across from where Annie and Martin stand, his head bent toward his shoulder while he jots something down on a pad of paper. “No, no, no. Beetee. He’s the one who developed it,” he says into the phone cradled between his cheek and shoulder.

Annie looks at Martin, who says, “Cold call.” When he sees she doesn’t understand, he clarifies. “Sorry. That’s what we call it when we contact someone we think might be interested in sponsoring a tribute. Some districts make more cold calls than others.” He glances at the man on the phone. “We generally don’t make a lot of them in Four. Neither do the other Career districts.”

“Oh.” Annie nods toward the man in question. “Who is he?” 

“That’s Watt, District Three.” Martin walks toward the steps Watt came down. “I’ll show you the control room. That’s where we’ll spend most of our time.” She follows him upstairs to a hallway with two open doors, gesturing toward the one a little way down the hall. “There are bathrooms down that way and also another set downstairs in the lounge,” he says before leading her through the nearest door into an enormous room. There are no windows because every bit of wall space is taken up by television screens.

“Martin?” She touches his hand and he turns toward her. She points to a pair of legs and their accompanying feet, sticking out beneath the countertop at the far end of the room. The screens at that end are marked with large 3s.

Martin laughs. “That’s probably Rae.” He raises his voice. “Rae? What are you doing under there?”

The feet and legs jerk and a woman’s voice says, loudly, “Ow!” as her head connects with the bottom of the counter. A dark-haired, dark-skinned woman in her sixties pushes herself out from under it. “Oh, hi, Martin! Who is that with you?”

“Rae, this is Annie Cresta, my partner this year. Annie, this is Rae Ericsson, the other mentor for District Three.” Rae rolls to her feet and walks over to Annie, offering her hand, which is cool to the touch and there are calluses on her fingertips. “You didn’t answer my question, Rae,” Martin reminds her.

“I noticed some static in the audio signal, so I’m trying to figure out how to optimize it to get rid of those ghosts.”

“I should have known it was something like that.”

Rae smiles at him. “Yes, you probably should have.” She turns to Annie. “Is this your first time mentoring, dear?”

“Yes,” Annie answers her, but before she has a chance to say more, Rae is already moving on.

“Oh, my goodness! It’s lunchtime. How did it get to be lunchtime? Come.” She takes both Annie and Martin by the hand and leads them to the stairs. “You’re both going to the Training Center lobby with me for lunch – much more comfortable there than in here – and you can tell me all about District Four these days. I haven’t been there in, goodness, more than forty years!” She leads them down the steps but then stops cold. “Oh.”

The other victors are all on their feet, facing toward two men in tailored suits. One of the men, tall and blond, holds a clipboard in one hand. The other, white-haired and of medium height, turns toward Annie and her companions: Coriolanus Snow greets them with a smiling mouth, but his eyes are dead. Annie’s breath catches in her throat, her eyes fix on the white rose bud in his dark lapel. Martin moves to inconspicuously place himself between Snow and Annie and push her back upstairs, but he’s too late.

“Ah, Martin. It’s good to see you again. It’s been… what? Ten years? More?” Snow comes toward Martin with his hand outstretched and for a moment, Annie thinks that Martin’s going to refuse to shake the president’s hand, but in the end, he does what Snow expects of him.

With a glance back at Annie, Martin continues down the stairs and Rae steps aside for him. When he shakes Snow’s hand he attempts again to shift the man’s attention away from Annie by trying to physically shift Snow toward the other victors. “It’s been twelve years, Mr. President.” He doesn’t sound like himself.

The president’s dead blue eyes lock on Annie. He licks his lips and says, “This lovely girl can only be Annie Cresta.” He stands at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at her. “Join us, Annie.” Feeling as though she walks through a thick fog, Annie descends.

_My name is Annie Cresta. I am twenty-two years old. I am the victor of the 70th Hunger Games. My home is with Finnick Odair in District Four._

“… look at you,” Snow says as he takes her hands. She misses part of what he says, can’t make sense of any of it. His skin is dry like paper, his touch cool as he grips her hands, pulling her inexorably toward him. Annie takes the last step down onto the floor and shivers, suddenly frozen in place. There’s the sharp scent of blood in the air. She can’t take another step forward.

_My name is Annie Cresta. I am twenty-two years old. My home is with Finnick Odair. My name is…_

“I can see why Finnick has kept you all to himself for so long.” Snow smiles again, gracious, terrifying.

_My name is Annie Cresta… I am… I am… My home is… is… My home is Finnick… I want to go home…._

He turns her around, runs a hand lightly down her spine, then turns her again until she’s facing him. He leans in close and whispers so that only she can hear, “I’m sure Finnick has taught you well.”

Annie falls to her knees, folds in on herself, her hands over her ears, and begins to scream, but no sound comes out. It’s all trapped inside her, drowning out everything, drowning her.

She is drowning, lost in a sea of sound, of ocean waves roaring in her ears, waves breaking in time to the pulse that throbs in her head. Snow’s voice threads through it all, no words, just fear.

A snarl, filled with loathing. “Son of a bitch” and “Get her out of here.”

A woman’s voice. “Annie, he’s gone. It’s okay.”

Hands at her wrists, pulling at her. She locks her muscles down, refuses to move. _Can’t touch me. Can’t touch me. Can’t touch._

“Somebody help me get her up.”

_no no no no no no_

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Perch, she’s not going to break anymore than she already has.” Harsh voice, but gentle hands, not trying to make her open up, just sliding behind her shoulders, pushing in behind her knees, lifting her. “Get the elevator.”

Warm arms. Stale liquor. Sweat. Soft breath against her hair. “Here we go, sweetheart.” The warm arms leave her. She rolls herself into a ball, tiny, insignificant, unnoticeable. “Finnick’ll be here soon.” Finnick. Home.

“What do I do, Haymitch?”

“Just don’t leave her alone, Perch. Finnick’ll know what to do when he gets here. From what he’s said, this is what she was like right after her Games.”

A door closes. Silence. She shuts her eyes, doesn’t know why they were open. Darkness surrounds her. _“I’m sure Finnick has taught you well.”_

Her eyes fly open. Blood and roses. She whimpers. _Run. Hide. Can’t see me. Can’t touch me._

“ANNIE!”

“Dammit. Finnick, she was here! She couldn’t have gotten past me.”

Warm arms, different from before. “Annie, baby, I’m here. I’m here. Don’t leave me.” Warm arms, warm body surrounding her. Home.

“What happened, Martin?”

“I was showing her around the mentors’ area, introducing her to some of the others. Haymitch. Rae. Lyme. Snow showed up.”

“Fuck.” Finnick’s arms tighten around her. Finnick.

“If I’d known he—”

“Stop it. You couldn’t have known.”

“Finnick, man, as soon as we entered the room, he focused on her. I tried to deflect him, but… He said something, touched her, and she just… She checked out. She was gone. Haymitch helped me get her back here. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You did fine, Martin. Can you leave us alone, please?” His voice is calm, his muscles trembling.

“Yeah, sure, Finnick.”

The door closes. Darkness surrounds them, but there’s no more fear. She’s home.

Finnick doesn’t say anything, just cradles her in his arms, in his lap. They’re on the floor in the corner of his bedroom; in the dim light, she can see the shape of the chair between them and the bed. He strokes her hair and her muscles begin to loosen, relax. When he feels her start to relax, he relaxes a little himself. He starts to hum, soft, tentative, and when she recognizes the tune, she hums with him, both of their voices growing stronger with each breath until it tangles into a duet.

“I’m here, Finnick,” she whispers when it’s over.

He falls silent for a while, just holding her, rocking her, then, “Annie, baby, what did he say to you?” She can hear the fear in the pitch of his voice.

_“This lovely girl can only be Annie Cresta.”_

_“… look at you.”_

_“I can see why Finnick has kept you all to himself for so long.”_

_“I’m sure Finnick has taught you well.”_

She curls her fingers into the fabric of Finnick’s shirt, buries her face between his arm and his chest. “Nothing. He ran his hand down my back. He didn’t say anything.” Nothing that Finnick needs to hear, nothing that Annie will allow to distract him from what he needs to do. “He didn’t say anything.”


	15. Long Way Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: drug use and foul language

**Chapter Fifteen – Long Way Home**

Finnick feels it when the nightmares begin. Annie goes rigid in his arms for just a moment and then relaxes, but not completely, her muscles still twitching in her arms, her legs. She presses her head into the pillow and a breath of sound escapes her lips. He tightens his arms around her, but rather than settling her, as it usually does, she stiffens, whips her head backward, nearly clipping his chin. She says clearly, “No,” and it doesn’t stop as she pushes against him, the words just fall into a broken pattern: _no, can’t touch, no, no, didn’t teach._

 _Teach?_ “Annie, baby, it’s a dream.”

“No, no, no…”

She wouldn’t tell him what happened beyond saying Snow touched her, which Martin confirmed. Martin also told him that Snow spoke to her, but she denied it, insisted in her quiet way that he’d said nothing. And then, after a time of alternating between retreating inside herself to a place Finnick couldn’t follow and dragging herself back to him, Annie asked him to make her forget, which he did, with his mouth and his hands and his body. She slept afterward, but lightly, the slightest sound, the slightest movement on his part pulling her back to wakefulness, only to drift off again moments later.

“Not fair…”

“What’s not fair, Annie?” He keeps his voice low and soft. She needs the sleep, so he doesn’t want to wake her if he doesn’t have to, if he can redirect the nightmare into something less troubling.

“Used,” she murmurs. He pulls his arm out from under her, props himself up on his elbow and reaches out to smooth her hair from her face and suddenly she’s fighting to escape whatever has her in her nightmare, limbs thrashing with increasing violence. “No!” Before he can either catch her arms or back away, she connects with his cheek, bone to bone, he isn’t sure if it’s her elbow or her fist. Before she can truly hurt either herself or him, Finnick rolls over her, pins her wrists above her head, traps her legs under his.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Annie, wake up.” She fights him, struggles to buck him off. He keeps his voice steady, calm, completely at odds with the turmoil inside him. Snow did this to her. “Annie.”

She goes still beneath him and he looks down at her face, sees her eyes glistening with tears in the moonlight that filters in through the window. She licks her lips and blinks away the tears, opens her mouth to say something, but then stops, closes her eyes and turns her face away from him.

“Annie, please.”

“I’m okay, Finnick. It was just a nightmare,” she whispers. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

“I wasn’t asleep.” He rolls off her and pulls her back into his arms. She weaves the fingers of her right hand with his left. “What were you dreaming of? It wasn’t your Games.”

Her fingers still. “Nothing. It was just a dream.”

“Don’t lie to me, Annie.” Even as he says the words, he feels her body relaxing back into sleep. “Don’t shut me out.” He kisses her hair, breathes, “I wish I could keep you safe.” But safety is such a relative thing, he has always known that, hinging on a bargain made with a malicious and spiteful man.

He and Annie had been together for maybe a year, keeping it secret save from his family and the other residents of Victors’ Island, when Snow called him into his office. Finnick had been in the Capitol for a couple of weeks with no sign of anything wrong. He had an appointment later that evening to attend an awards ceremony with a woman Snow had already told him had to be kept happy no matter what. Snow left him waiting for nearly twenty minutes, standing in front of the desk while the president took care of paperwork and then a phone call before circling his desk to stand in front of Finnick.

“I hear rumors that you have a girlfriend,” Snow finally said. He held a rose bud in one hand, not one of the ones he always wore, but red. He sniffed at it and then reached a finger under Finnick’s lapel, pinned the delicate bud there, a drop of blood caught on the dark fabric.

Forcing his voice to a steadiness he didn’t feel, Finnick responded, “Is that why I’m here? Because you heard a rumor?” _He knows he knows he knows…_

Snow sat on the corner of his desk and studied Finnick for a moment. “You’re seeing Annie Cresta,” he states. “My understanding is that she has moved in with you.”

Finnick stiffened his knees to keep them from buckling. “How…?”

“How doesn’t matter.” Snow smiled at him, a slow stretch of lips. “Congratulations, Finnick. Do you plan to marry? Because I’m sure, given how popular you are with our citizens, we could give you two quite a beautiful wedding.”

“We…” Finnick swallowed, his voice failing him. He tried again. “We don’t have any plans to marry.”

“Pity. I’m sure your Annie would make a lovely bride. I’m pleased that she has recovered from her… difficulties following her victory. I had no idea.” _Of course you didn’t_ , Finnick thought. It was far better for Annie if everyone believed she was crazy. Finnick had fostered that impression ever since her Victory Tour; sometimes it was even true. Snow looked down at his hands, picked at something beneath one of his fingernails before looking back up at Finnick. “Bring her with you when you return for the upcoming Games,” he ordered, his voice full of his displeasure. “I’m sure the Capitol will love her as much as you do.”

A state of near panic settled in. “Please.”

“Please?” Snow cocked his head to one side and watched Finnick. “’Please’ what?”

“Please leave her alone.”

Snow raised one brow. “How old are you now, my boy?” he asked.

Finnick frowned at the non sequitur. “How old am I? Twenty-one.”

Snow nodded, a look of speculation, of calculation in his flat blue eyes. He studied Finnick for a minute or two longer before saying at last, “All right, Finnick. Your Annie may remain in District Four on one condition.”

“Anything.”

“You haven’t heard my condition.”

“I don’t care. I’ll do anything you want, just please, leave her alone.” He knew even as he said it that Snow would take advantage of it. He wasn’t disappointed.

“In addition to your own duties, you will fulfill those that would have been hers as well.” The President smiled again. “Or at least their equivalent.”

Finnick closed his eyes, clenched his hands into fists. The scent of the rose in his lapel drifted up into his nostrils, suffocating him. He opened his eyes. “Give me your word.”

Snow stood, walked over to Finnick, placed his hands on Finnick’s shoulders. Finnick towered over him, but they both knew who held all the power. “You have my word, Finnick. For as long as you perform for both of you, your Annie may remain snug at home.” His hands slid down Finnick’s arms, his fingers digging in above Finnick’s elbows with almost bruising force.

Tingling in his fingers brings Finnick back to the present. Annie is a warm and, at least for the moment, peaceful weight in his arms. He carefully pulls his sleeping arm out from under her and shifts backward in the bed, slides out from under the covers. He pauses to make sure Annie doesn’t stir, shaking his arm to get rid of the pins and needles before he heads into the bathroom.

He’s only been gone for a couple of minutes when her shriek shatters the silence. He slams back through the door to the bedroom to find her sitting straight up in the bed, eyes wide, screaming a name, and he isn’t sure if it’s his or her district partner’s from five years before.

“Annie, I’m here.” He all but launches himself onto the bed. “Baby, I’m here. I’m here.” He pulls her into his arms. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you.”

“There was so much blood.” Her words are muffled against his chest. The arena then. The boy who volunteered when Annie volunteered, who followed her into the arena. She shakes and her hands move restlessly where they’re trapped between them. Finnick glances at the clock: 12:03. He hasn’t slept at all and the sleep Annie managed hasn’t done her any good. “It was Erik and then it was you.”

“I’m right here, Annie. I’m not dead.”

“So much blood…” She pulls back from him. Again, there are tears in her eyes, her face is wet with them. “Make it stop.”

“Annie…”

“Make it go away.” She pushes her face into his chest again. “Hurts…”

He can’t stand it. He knows what she’s going through even if he doesn’t know exactly what Snow said to trigger it. Holding her in his arms, feeling her tremble, he makes a decision. He pulls away from her. At her sound of protest he promises, “I’ll be right back,” and heads into the bathroom again. Opening the cabinet over the sink, he pulls the contents off the lower shelf and pushes at the back until it slides to the left, revealing the space behind it and the bottle of pills he keeps there for emergencies.

He shakes out a small, translucent blue pill, rolling it between his thumb and index finger, and contemplates putting it back into the bottle. He stares at the pill for a few seconds, but he can’t get Annie’s screams out of his head. Finally he slips the bottle back into its hiding place and puts everything back the way it was, fills a glass with water, and returns to the bedroom, sitting beside her on the bed.

She takes the pill from him and stares at it in the moonlight. “It’s called Oblivion,” he tells her. “It’ll make you forget, at least for a little while.” She looks from the pill between her fingers to Finnick, a question in her eyes. “It temporarily blocks memories,” he tells her. “Sometimes it delays the formation of new ones while you’re under it. Once it wears off, everything comes back, but it’s like the memories are old. They’re there, but there’s a distance to them.”

“How long…?”

“It varies from person to person. Twenty-four to forty-eight hours, usually.”

She meets his eyes. “It sounds dangerous.”

He nods. “It can be. It’s addictive and it’s illegal. It was developed to help psych patients cope with trauma, but it sells on the streets as much for the side effects as for blocking memories.”

“You’ve used it?”

“Yes.” He looks away from her, not wanting her to see reflected in his eyes any part of the things he tried so hard to distance himself from. “It won’t make you truly forget, Annie, but it’ll make you not care for a while.”

She reaches up to stroke a finger down his jaw line, making him look at her again. “How many times?”

“The girl who gave them to me warned me not to take them too close together.” He shrugs. “She gave me a half dozen or so and said if I took them all in a matter of days, I’d be done for, addicted. That was three years ago and I still have three left. Two if you decide you want this one.” In response, she reaches for the glass of water, delicately takes the pill into her mouth and washes it down with half of the water. “It acts pretty quickly,” he warns her.

“Will it make me sleep?” she asks, snuggling against him again.

“No, but it’ll keep the nightmares at bay so you can stay asleep.”

“So tell me about those side effects the Capitolites want….” She traces patterns onto his chest, kisses his neck and collarbone. He laughs when the patterns start to drift lower, down his stomach.

“Heightened libido, reduced inhibitions,” he says, catching her wayward hand even as her fingers still and her breathing begins to even out. She’s so exhausted that neither of those particular side effects will come into play, at least not for a while. She seems to grow heavier in his arms as she drifts toward sleep again. He lays her back on the bed and stands, pulling the blanket over her.

“I don’t care about all the others, Finnick,” she murmurs, her voice blurry, “you’re mine.”

He bends down to kiss her forehead. “I _am_ yours, Annie. Always have been, always will be.” He has no intention of lingering on just how short “always” might be for them. He stands there for a while, just watching her sleep. This time there won’t be any nightmares to wake her. She’ll sleep for hours, unlike him.

Finnick pulls on his underwear, then throws on a shirt and jeans and slips barefoot from the room. The floor outside their bedroom is lit only by dim nightlights, there to prevent Training Center guests from tripping over anything in the middle of the night. He hits the button to call the elevator and when it comes, he presses the button for the lobby.

It’s after hours, so no one is there to see it – not directly, anyway, although he’s sure the cameras will pick it up – when he steals a bottle of liquor from behind the bar. The end farthest from the door is where the grain-based alcohol is kept, but it’s dark and he doesn’t know exactly what he grabs beyond the fact that the bottle is full and unopened. It doesn’t matter what it is. His only plan is to go up to the roof and drink himself to oblivion, because he can afford the hangover in the morning better than he can the effects of the Oblivion he gave Annie. The last thing he needs is to blurt out something about rebellion or to do something their Mockingjay will find unforgiveable.

When he reaches the roof, he finds Haymitch and Chaff already there. Haymitch, sitting with his back against the low wall that borders the garden area, waves him in and gestures to the empty bottle beside the unconscious Chaff, sprawled in front of Haymitch. “You’re just in time, Odair. Bastard drank the last of my hooch.”

Finnick slides down beside Haymitch and twists the top from the bottle, takes a swig and hands it to the older man. “That’s exactly why I’m here, Haymitch, to supply you with more booze.”

Haymitch pats Finnick on one upraised knee and grins at him. “Good man.” He passes the bottle back to Finnick.

“What’s up with him?” Finnick kicks lightly at Chaff’s shoulder. “Training wasn’t that tough.”

“Just hit him it’s his last week on this earth and he has to spend it with you losers. ‘s enough to drive anyone to drink.”

“Truer words…” Finnick drinks and then hands the bottle back to Haymitch.

“Why’re you here, boy?”

“Can’t sleep.” He leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes, listens to the chimes tinkling in the light breeze. “Annie had a bad night. Really bad. Screaming bad.” Haymitch knocks the bottle against Finnick’s knee; Finnick closes his fingers around the neck of it when Haymitch presses it into his hand. “She never screams, Haymitch.” He drinks.

“Fucking Snow,” Haymitch says and takes the bottle from Finnick. “Why the hell are you here instead of with her?”

“She’s asleep.”

Haymitch snorts. “I doubt that’ll last long.”

“I gave her something to help.” Finnick can feel Haymitch staring at him in the dark.

“What’d you give her?”

He considers lying; Haymitch never understood using drugs to cope, which is all kinds of ironic. “Oblivion,” he tells him.

“You stupid son of a bitch. What the fuck were you thinking? Oblivion? That shit is as addictive as it gets.” Haymitch’s anger, directed at Finnick, is a little surprising and it stings.

“One hit isn’t going to addict her and I was _thinking_ that I could make the pain go away for a little while.”

“Fucking idiot.” Haymitch downs a good quarter of the bottle. “I bet you fucked her, too, didn’t you?” he mutters.

Finnick’s vision whites out, flaring then fading in time with the roar of blood in his ears. For a moment he feels like he’s going to be sick and he isn’t sure if it’s from the rush of adrenaline or at the implication that he used Annie, took advantage of her in her weakened state, and at the fact that it came from one of his oldest, closest friends.

There’s a sound from the vicinity of his feet, movement, then Chaff says, “Haymitch.”

“Aw fuck. Finnick, I’m sorry.” Haymitch’s voice is rough.

“That’s okay.” Finnick’s voice is much steadier than it has any right to be. “I guess I’m a fool for thinking we were friends.” He pounds the back of his head against the wall. “This place poisons everything.” When he closes his eyes, he sees another night almost eight years ago, drinking with these two men as they helped put him back together after Snow had done his best to break him into pieces.

“Damn it, Finnick. We _are_ friends, you stupid bastard. I didn’t mean—”

“Yes you did, or you wouldn’t have said it.”

“I was drunk. I _am_ drunk.”

“When are you not drunk?”

Chaff pushes himself to a sitting position, looks at the two men leaning side by side against the low wall. He reaches for the bottle in Haymitch’s hand. “You’re right about one thing, Finnick: This place is poison.” He drinks and passes the bottle back to Haymitch. “’Course the boy fucked her, Haymitch. They’re young, they’re pretty, and they’re practically married. And _you_ …” He hits Finnick’s knee with a fist. “You know damn well ‘mitch here talks a whole bunch of shit he don’t mean when he’s well and truly drunk. So both of you, get over it.” With that he stands a bit unsteadily, catches himself on the railing that extends above the low wall, and then lurches toward the elevator. “I’m for bed.”

Haymitch waves the bottle at him. Finnick wishes him a good night. After a time, Haymitch bumps into Finnick’s shoulder to gain his attention and then hands him the bottle. They drink in silence, Haymitch lost in his own thoughts as Finnick replays in his mind everything he said and did since Martin told him about Annie and Snow. In spite of Haymitch’s reaction, he can’t say he’d change anything.

“What I gave her is a hell of a lot safer for her than that rotgut you live on,” he tells Haymitch. The knowledge swims before him of how crucial Haymitch’s Katniss is to their hoped-for rebellion and how she’s being deliberately kept in the dark. “At least I didn’t feed her something she knew nothing about and hope for the best.”

“Son of a bitch.” Haymitch takes another drink. He says nothing else, just sits there beside Finnick holding the bottle. Finally he drinks again and hands the bottle to Finnick once more. “It’s too dangerous to tell her.”

Finnick rolls his head along the wall to look at Haymitch. “It’s too dangerous to not.”

“Shit.” Haymitch rubs his face with both hands and then levers himself to his feet, wobbling a bit before grabbing onto the railing.

“You need help getting back, old man?” Finnick asks, making no effort to get up.

“Nah,” Haymitch says, following it with a belch of epic proportions. “I’ve got this.” He lets go of the railing and starts to walk toward the elevator, but his balance is off and he ends up shuffling nearer to the wall.

Finnick takes another swig as he watches; there’s not much left in the bottle, so he finishes it and rolls to his feet, too, not sure if he’s going to get another bottle or head back to bed and try to sleep. Haymitch is still about as far from the elevator now as he was a few minutes ago, still next to the low wall when he trips and heads right for the railing, barely catching himself. Finnick rushes over to him and grabs him by the arm, pulling him away from the wall and the railing and the force field as Haymitch laughs.

“Wouldn’t that be something? Live twenty-five years with the consequences of using their damned force field only to have it puke me back up when I trip into it.”

“Yeah, Haymitch, that’d be something.” He slings Haymitch’s arm over his shoulder.

Waiting for the elevator, Haymitch looks over at him and says, “I’ll take care of her, Finnick.”

“Like you did this afternoon?”

A sharp intake of breath, then, “That’s not fair and you know it.”

Finnick drops his voice, makes it gravelly, rough, and says, “Welcome to your life, kid. Fair don’t enter into it.”

“Shit.”

xXx

Annie wakes to silence. She opens her eyes and turns her head on the pillow, reaches out to her left, but Finnick isn’t there. Silence and solitude. She stretches, wincing at the tightness in her shoulders and neck, and sits up to a room filled with midday sunlight filtering in through the window, where the curtains are open wide. A glance at the clock and the emptiness in her stomach confirm that it’s nearly lunchtime.

And then it hits her: this isn’t her home. Nothing in the room is familiar, not the furniture, not the bedclothes, not the artwork on the walls, not the view of what looks like an apartment building outside the only window. Tendrils of fear start to worm their way into her consciousness.

The last thing Annie remembers is a moving train. There was the awful reaping before that, but nothing after. _My head…_ She touches her forehead, but there’s no sign of any injury there. Instead, her muscles ache, especially her neck and shoulders. She’s not wearing any clothes and there’s a different kind of ache between her legs. Panic starts to set in and she folds herself into a ball on the bed, her hands over her head, but then she quashes the panic before it can truly take hold, pushes herself upright again. _Think, Annie. The train was headed to the Capitol for the Hunger Games. This must be the Capitol...._

She forces herself to look around the room more closely, to pay attention to the details. She’s not in the middle of the bed, but rather on the same side she sleeps on at home and there’s an indentation in the pillow beside hers; both things tell her that she shared the bed with someone else. She picks up the pillow beside her and holds it to her face and it smells like home. It smells like Finnick. She breathes a little easier. There are little bits and pieces around the room that belong to him, too. _Okay, so this is his room in the Training Center._

Draped over the footboard of the bed is a shirt and jeans that she doesn’t recognize, but that look like something she would wear. Might have worn? _How long have I been here?_ A thought scratches at the back of her brain, a flash of something that might be a memory, an answer to her question, but it’s gone before she can catch it.

She stares for a time at the alien view from the window, trying to chase down anything between the train and now, but only succeeds in causing herself a headache. She flings the covers away in frustration and swings her legs over the side of the bed. “I need a shower,” she announces aloud then stands, walks over to the dresser and without thinking about it, opens a drawer and pulls out underwear, opens another and pulls out a short-sleeved shirt. She takes those and the jeans from the end of the bed into the bathroom before it hits her that she knew exactly where the clothes were.

 _A flash of close-cropped brown hair and laughing blue eyes above a stack of clothing. “Mags sent them.”_ Annie blinks and it’s gone, but not before she puts a name to the face. “Martin Perch,” she says to her reflection in the bathroom mirror and frowns. Beside the tangle-haired girl in the mirror is a piece of paper. Reaching out, she pulls it from the glass, leaving behind a spot of what appears to be liquid soap. She recognizes Finnick’s sprawling handwriting.

_Annie, I’m sorry I couldn’t be there when you woke. I had to go to training (2nd day – UGH). You’re in the Capitol in the Training Center, you’re supposed to be my mentor for the Games, and there’s a reason you can’t remember anything from the last couple days. I’ll answer any questions you have when I see you tonight, but if you’re feeling up to it, you can join Martin in the Headquarters building (across the courtyard). Or you could go up to the TC roof. You used to like the gardens up there. They’ve changed a little since you were here last, much nicer. For one thing, NO ROSES. Lots_

There’s an arrow at the bottom, indicating there’s more on the back, so Annie turns the page over. The middle of the top two lines are a little blurry from the soap, but still legible.

_of windchimes and suncatchers. If you get hungry, you can order something up – just use the microphone thing by the bedroom door. Or you can go down to the lobby. Anyway, I’ve got to go. Mags is threatening me with her cane. I love you. Finnick_

_P.S. The note was in here instead of the bedroom because I didn’t think you’d see it in there. I hope I didn’t worry you too much. F_

_P.P.S. This time if anyone accuses me of breaking the mentor/tribute rules, it’s actually true. F_

_Crap! PPPS. If you do leave the suite, be careful._

She laughs. His writing is larger and messier as it goes on, the second post script huge and loopy until the final post script is nothing more than a cramped scribble as he ran out of room. She pictures Mags poking at him with her cane as he writes and she grins, lays the note down on the counter by her clothes, and steps into the shower. Apparently, no one expects her anywhere, so she can take as long a shower as she’d like.

Finnick’s note allays most of her fears, although she definitely wants an explanation for the huge gap in her memory of the last few days. She doesn’t really want to eat alone in the room or in the lobby with all the people that are sure to be there, but if the courtyard isn’t too crowded, the thought of listening to the fountain while she eats is nice. It’s not the ocean, but it is water and she’s good at pretending.

Once showered, Annie quickly dresses and calls up the elevator. When it arrives, she punches the button for the lobby and then turns around to watch her descent. An enormous television screen above the bar shows a shifting scene of what looks like people in the districts setting up public viewing platforms for the Games. The lobby is just as crowded as she thought it would be, all the tables and all the spaces at the bar filled, which doesn’t bode well for the courtyard. Annie decides between the crowd and the “entertainment,” she’ll go back to the fourth floor and order something there, take it up to the roof to eat.

The doors open and she reaches out to press the button for her floor when a voice stops her. “Annie?” A man in simple black and green stops in front of the elevator. There’s a woman with him who looks somewhat more typical of the Capitol’s citizens, maybe a couple of years older than her companion, carrying something in a metal case. Instead of closing the doors on them, Annie steps through and lets them close behind her. The man smiles at her and says, “You look so much better than the last time I saw you. How are you?”

“Do I know you?” she asks, frowning. She’s not sure why she got off the elevator instead of riding it back up, but there’s something familiar about the man. She’s fairly sure she’s never seen the woman before.

His smile fades. “Annie, I’m Cinna. We met the day before yesterday.” He glances at his companion who watches the interplay with curiosity. “You don’t remember?”

Annie studies his face, stopping at his gold-lined, gold-flecked green eyes. _A kind smile. A damp scrap of blue and purple cloth. Gentle fingers on her chin. Soothing hands at her forehead._ She blinks. “Cinna. Yes, I…” Blinks again. “On the train.” Meeting Cinna is definitely something she’s going to ask Finnick about.

“Yes,” Cinna confirms cautiously. “We met on the train.”

Frowning, Annie says, “You’re the stylist for District Twelve.” That much comes to her easily, but she doesn’t remember anything about meeting him beyond his eyes, his smile, and him wiping away the blood with that blue and purple… “Scarf. It was a scarf.” At the look on his face, she says, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so confusing. I had a head injury and…” She shrugs. She doesn’t know what else could have caused the enormous hole in her memory, although Finnick’s note implied that there is something.

Cinna seems to accept that, looking relieved. He gestures toward his companion. “Annie, this is Portia, my styling partner. Portia, this is Annie Cresta of District Four.” Portia holds out a hand and after a brief hesitation, Annie shakes it. Neither of them seems to notice the delay. “Annie, Portia and I were heading to lunch. Would you like to join us?”

“Please do, Annie,” Portia adds to his invitation. “Cinna told me he watched the opening ceremonies with you. He has some beautiful sketches of you to prove it.” _Oh, really?_

Portia seems friendly enough and, like Cinna, she doesn’t have that accent Annie associates with the Capitol. Looking from Portia’s friendly smile to Cinna’s cautious concern, Annie asks, “Is there someplace that isn’t so crowded?”

“It _is_ a little loud in here, isn’t it?” Cinna observes. “Portia? Harriman’s?”

“That would be perfect!” She turns to Annie. “I have an interview I have to go to at two,” she gives her metal case a little shake and Annie realizes it must be some kind of portfolio, “but Harriman’s is just around the block from where I have to be.”

“An interview?” Annie asks.

“Portia has a shot at becoming the personal stylist for Regina Blalok,” Cinna tells her.

Annie looks back and forth between them. “I’m sorry. I don’t know who that is.” Portia looks skeptical, but Cinna just laughs.

“There’s no reason you should, Annie. She’s a big deal here in the Capitol, but I doubt you’ve heard of her in the districts.” He gestures toward the lobby and the double doors on the other side. “Shall we?”

Portia moves ahead of Annie and Cinna and turns, walking backwards. “Regina Blalok is a singer, Annie. She’s becoming more and more popular every day. I hear she even had a brief fling with your district’s Finnick Odair a few months back.”

Neither of them seems to notice Annie’s silence as they step through the glass doors and into the midday sunshine. Cinna leans in closer to Annie and whispers loudly, “She’ll be old news by this time next year.” He glances at Portia to judge her reaction and Annie gets the impression it’s a running joke between them.

Stepping from the shade of the buildings and into the direct light of the sun hurts Annie’s eyes and makes her skin itch; Cinna slips a pair of sunglasses over his eyes. The air temperature is hot, although not nearly as hot as it would be back home. Portia, still walking backward, is telling Cinna why he’s wrong about Regina’s staying power and they’re both laughing when a white-uniformed Peacekeeper stops Annie with a hand on her shoulder.

“Where are you going, Miss Cresta?” she asks as another Peacekeeper stops beside her. Neither of them appears to be armed, but even so, Annie’s heart beats a little faster.

Annie steps back far enough that the woman would have to follow her to keep her hand on Annie’s arm. “We’re going for lunch.”

“I’ll have to check—”

A frisson of fear slithers down Annie’s spine as she remembers the Peacekeepers who came to Finnick’s parents’ home to take him back to the Capitol. “Check on what?” she interrupts. “Am I a prisoner?” Cinna and Portia are no longer smiling.

“Is there a problem, officer?” Cinna asks, moving a little closer to Annie, but Portia takes it a step further.

“Oh, this is ridiculous. Annie is a victor, not a tribute. She’s going to lunch with us and that’s that.” She takes Annie by the hand and starts toward the street.

“Portia…” Cinna starts but she doesn’t let him finish.

“I have been a stylist for these Games for six years, Cinna. I’ve never heard of such a thing. Mentors and visiting victors can come and go as they please.” She keeps walking, dragging Annie along with her. Annie glances over her shoulder and sees Cinna shrug as he says something to the Peacekeepers, who don’t seem to know quite what to do, before hurrying to catch up with Annie and Portia.

“You can slow down now, Portia,” he says when he draws close. “Annie did have a rather nasty concussion just a couple of days ago.”

Portia stops. “Oh, Annie, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

Annie looks from the contrite Portia to the amused Cinna and a laugh bubbles up from inside. It feels like people have been asking her that question for days. “It’s okay, Portia. They fixed it in the Remake Center.” After she says it, she realizes that it’s true. It wasn’t a pleasant experience, but when it was over, Annie was no longer in pain.

Taking a deep breath, Portia leads Annie and Cinna down the street at a more sedate pace. “I wonder what that was all about?” Portia says when they have to stop at a corner to wait for traffic. She looks over at Annie and points across the street and halfway up the next block. “Harriman’s is right there, Annie. Do you see the red canopy? Not too far from the Games complex.”

 _Not nearly far enough_ , Annie thinks as the traffic stops, allowing them to cross. They walk in silence the short distance to the restaurant, weaving between other pedestrians. The part of the city block Harriman’s faces is in a zone marked no cars or other motorized vehicles allowed, which allows their seating, along with that of a couple of neighboring restaurants, to spill out into the pedestrian area.

“The Training Center staff seem a little jumpy this year,” Cinna observes as he snags a table for three under a large shade tree a little way into the no vehicle zone where it’s less crowded. “And I don’t recall there being quite so many Peacekeepers for the last Games.” Annie sees a pair of them walking through the pedestrian zone, but they don’t seem to be paying any particular attention to anyone or anything, just patrolling.

Portia looks thoughtful. “Do you suppose it’s because of the Quarter Quell?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, though. “Why don’t you two wait here while I go order? We’ll never get a server out here with that crush.” She sets her portfolio on the ground beneath the table as she tells Annie that the menu is limited, but assures her that whatever she orders will be fabulous. Cinna suggests they all three have whatever the special is for the day for simplicity’s sake and Portia slips through the people to place their order.

Picking up the conversation from before, Annie says, “It’s because they’re afraid of us.”

“What do you mean?” Cinna asks.

“We’ve all won our Games already, proved that we’re resourceful, maybe dangerous. Most of the tributes and mentors this year are friends, not strangers. They’re afraid we’ll fight back.”

“Annie, I don’t think you should talk about…”

“Don’t worry, Cinna. I wouldn’t say anything like that in the Training Center.” She isn’t sure why she said anything now, except that there’s something about Cinna that makes Annie trust him. Everyone surrounding them is engrossed in their own conversations, and she doesn’t think any of them are close enough to hear what she has to say anyway. The Peacekeepers she saw earlier are nowhere in sight.

Cinna leans across the table, closer to Annie. She can’t read his face, as much because of the studied neutrality of his expression as the dark glasses obscuring his eyes. “Haymitch thinks the government changed the terms of the Quell to punish the victors,” he whispers.

“So does Finnick.” Annie doesn’t know what she thinks about the terms of the Quell, other than that they are what they are. She blinks back sudden tears as she tells Cinna, “I don’t want him to die.” Cinna reaches across the table and takes Annie’s hand in his. “And I don’t want to be used against him.”

“Used against him how, Annie?”

“Just me being here can be used to unsettle him, distract him from the Games.” Before she can say anything else, Portia returns with three glasses of something cold and wet, the glasses dripping with condensation.

“Our food will be here in about ten minutes,” she says as she hands out the drinks. It turns out to be lemonade and it's quite good. Dropping the more troubling thread of conversation, Cinna and Portia talk about the designs they’re working on for the upcoming interviews, how Cinna is modifying the wedding dress the Capitol chose for the girl from District 12, but Annie tunes most of it out. Their food arrives and they eat and the two stylists continue to talk, occasionally asking Annie’s opinion on something or clarifying a term used, but mostly allowing her to keep to herself. The food is good and Annie enjoys listening to Portia and Cinna and just being outside in the open air.

She watches the people move around the area, which is very much like a more polished version of the market square back home. There are two pairs of Peacekeepers patrolling the pedestrian zone, which is far fewer than in District 4 and they don’t seem to be armed, but they are there, reminding Annie again of the brief incident at the Training Center. Those Peacekeepers knew who she was. They didn’t try to stop Cinna or Portia from leaving, just her. There had to be a reason for that and she has no illusions that the reason is something that means good things for her.

The more she thinks about it, the more convinced Annie becomes that she could be used to hurt Finnick. By the time their meal is finished and Portia is ready to leave for her interview, Annie has decided that it’s best if she doesn’t go back to the Training Center. Finnick made his way from the Capitol to District 4; she can do it, too. Before they ever left for the reaping, Finnick made it clear that he wanted his family to take themselves and Annie out to sea where they’d have a chance at staying clear of whatever trouble was brewing. He wanted her well away from the Capitol with its long reach. Being here now is the opposite of what Finnick wanted for her.

“Annie, I’m so sorry we bored you with our shop talk,” Portia says as she stands. She finishes her lemonade and sets the empty glass down, reaches under the table for her portfolio.

“You didn’t bore me,” Annie tells her truthfully. She doesn’t mention that she didn’t pay much attention to their conversation.

“Well, you two, wish me luck.”

“You don’t need luck, Portia,” Cinna tells her. “You have imagination and skill. Just make sure Regina Blalok knows that.” Portia accepts his kiss on her cheek and turns to leave.

“Good luck, Portia,” Annie calls after her. The older woman waves a hand as she runs across the street and disappears around a corner.

“I suppose we should be getting back to the Training Center,” Cinna says.

“I’m not going back.” Cinna looks at her.

“Not going back?”

“I’m not going to let them use me against him. I’m going home. It’s not like I’m needed here. I don’t know how to be a mentor.”

Cinna’s eyebrows rise up above his dark glasses. “How are you going to get from here back to District Four?”

“I’ll take the train.”

“Do you have any money?” Annie looks down at her empty plate, as if the answer to his question were sitting there, waiting for her to discover it. She didn’t even pay for her own meal. She looks back up at him when he says, “You don’t have any money, do you? And you don’t have the necessary documents to travel between districts. You haven’t thought this through, Annie.”

“I can’t stay here.” Tears threaten, but she does her best to hold them back.

He stands up from the table. “Let’s walk.” He waits for Annie to join him and then heads down the street, away from the crowded pedestrian zone, but also away from the Training Center. “Your name and face have been in the news recently, since the victors began arriving from the districts. You could possibly get by simply because you’re a victor. That carries a lot of weight in this city, but it’s no guarantee you won’t be stopped.”

“You’ll help me then?” Annie feels a brief surge of hope.

“I shouldn’t.” Cinna stops and turns toward Annie, presses a piece of hard plastic into her hand. “Take this. There should be enough on it to buy a train ticket, if you can find an agent who will overlook your lack of travel documents.”

She slips the card into her back pocket. “You won’t get in trouble, will you?”

“If it comes to it, I’ll say I lost it.”

“Why would you do this for me?”

“Let’s just say that while I’m not convinced you’ll be used against anyone, I’m also not convinced that you won’t. You clearly believe that it’s a real threat, and I’ve seen some things this past year that disturb me.” He looks around, but no one is paying them any attention. He points up a cross street. “At the next intersection you can hop on a cable car that will take you to the train station.”

Annie takes both of Cinna’s hands and stretches up to kiss him. “Thank you, Cinna.” As she says the words, she has a flash of memory, a different setting, a different situation, but the same man. This isn’t the first time he has helped her when she needed it. “I won’t forget.”

“Go before I think better of it.”

She quickly crosses the street. When she turns back to wave goodbye, he is already walking back toward the Training Center. Beyond him she sees a flash of white – Peacekeepers. “I won’t forget, Cinna,” she whispers and hurries up the street, her pulse suddenly racing.

Before she reaches the next intersection, she sees a cable car pull to a stop and she breaks into a run. She’s the last to board and glances back down the way she came, but she sees no one following.

“Payment?” Annie looks up at the driver and after a beat realizes what he’s asking.

“How far is it to the train station?”

He shrugs. “Two minutes? Maybe three?”

Annie reaches into her back pocket and runs the card Cinna gave her through the slot to pay for the ride. The driver releases the brake as she returns the card to her pocket, but as she heads toward the back of the car, expecting it to start moving while she takes a seat, a Peacekeeper boards from the opening at the opposite end. Trying not to draw too much attention to herself, Annie turns, but another Peacekeeper boards right behind her, trapping her.

“Miss Cresta, please come with us.” It’s the same pair that stopped her at the Training Center. Unlike the ones patrolling the pedestrian zone, these two carry pistols; she doesn’t remember if they were wearing sidearms when they stopped her earlier. She worries that something has happened to Cinna because of her, not that he’s been shot, but that he may have been arrested.

“So I am a prisoner.” She feels again the prick of tears behind her eyes and blinks them away.

“No, ma’am. It’s for your own safety.” The female Peacekeeper takes Annie’s arm as she pushes her way to the front of the cable car. The rest of the passengers are either studiously avoiding looking at Annie or they’re watching the whole thing with fascination. There doesn’t seem to be a middle ground.

“My safety.” Annie begins to laugh as they take her back to her prison. She can’t make herself stop.


	16. Fractured Moonlight on the Sea

**Chapter Sixteen – Fractured Moonlight on the Sea**

“What happened to you?” Johanna asks Finnick when he and Mags walk through the gymnasium door. Taking a step away from Blight, her district partner, she reaches up to touch Finnick’s black eye and he shies away, raising a hand to block.

“Did Haymitch do that?” Chaff asks, frowning over Johanna’s shoulder. His eyes are a little bloodshot, but the older man looks none the worse for his alcohol consumption the night before. Johanna looks sharply back and forth between Finnick and Chaff, clearly intrigued by the possibility that Haymitch might have hit Finnick.

“A good morning to both of you, too,” Finnick says. Mags says something Finnick doesn’t catch and pokes him in the ribs for emphasis; when it looks like she’s going to poke him again, he grabs her hand and tucks it under his arm to prevent further abuse. “No, Chaff, Haymitch didn’t hit me. I didn’t hit him, either. No matter how much I wanted to.” In fact, he’d returned him safely to the twelfth floor and helped Peeta wrangle him into bed before going back down to find his own.

Smiling sweetly, Mags pats Finnick’s cheek, looks over at Johanna and says clearly, “Annie.”

“Your Annie did that?” A smile spreads slowly across Johanna’s face and promises a heavy load of snark if Finnick doesn’t do something about it. Gloss, hovering near the knot-tying station with the other Careers, smacks his sister in the arm to get her attention and then points toward Finnick; from the angle of view, his black eye should be clearly visible to the pair from 1. With a sigh of resignation, Finnick walks past Linna and Trayn, already taking possession of the camouflage station in the middle of the room. As they watch curiously, he clears a swath of their table of dyes and paints and jumps up into the space.

“May I have your attention?” he calls. Once the majority of those in the room are looking at him, Finnick continues. “I don’t feel like repeating this a dozen times, so I’ll say it once now. My black eye is not the result of a fight. I did not walk into a door. I was not hit by anyone because I made a lewd proposition.” There are a couple of catcalls at that, which is only what he expects. “Nor for turning down a lewd proposition.” Someone throws something at his head – he suspects Johanna – which he catches without looking. It turns out to be a hunk of thin rope used to tie practice knots, so maybe it wasn’t Jo after all; he slips it into his pocket. “I simply made the mistake of trying to wake a sleeping victor and I didn’t duck fast enough.” With that he jumps down from the table and waves his hand dismissively. “Carry on.”

He rejoins Mags, who pats his arm before taking his hand in hers and leading him toward the hammock-making area, her grip on his hand tightening with each thunk of her cane on the wood floor. Johanna stays with them, but her district partner doesn’t follow. “I’m surprised Blight decided to show up for training,” Finnick remarks, but Johanna, still looking at Finnick’s black eye, which he has to admit is pretty spectacular, ignores the observation.

“So does this mean Annie has put up with enough of your crap?”

Finnick shoots her a sour look. “I wasn’t lying about how I got the black eye, Jo. She had a nightmare and I didn’t get out of the way in time.”

Her grin slips. “I thought you said she doesn't have violent nightmares.”

“She doesn’t, usually, but when she was in the control room yesterday the president decided to pay a visit. Martin said once Snow realized she was there, he focused entirely on her.”

Johanna’s amusement, already visibly waning, disappears entirely. “Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh.’ No one was close enough to hear what he said to her, but whatever it was sent her into a tailspin. Haymitch had to carry her back to our floor. It took hours to calm her down.” The only thing he really has to hold onto is the fact that it was _only_ hours before she regained coherence, not weeks like it was after they fished her out of the arena.

“Is she okay now?”

“I hope so. She was still asleep when I left.” Mags interrupts them with a tap of her cane on Finnick’s leg, then points toward the Career pack on the other side of the gym. All four Careers, along with both tributes from 10 and the male from 9 have joined up at the hand-to-hand combat station and are looking straight at Finnick, Mags, and Johanna. As a group, they turn their backs in a show of listening to the instructor. “Well isn’t that interesting?” Finnick asks.

“Aw, Finnick.” He glances down at Johanna. With an exaggerated pout, she observes, “I don’t think they like us.”

Snickering, Finnick grins and openly watches the Career pack, making sure they see his amusement when they sneak sidelong glances his way. Beyond them, Katniss and Peeta stop just inside the main doors to survey the various stations a minute or two before the clock on the wall above hits 10:00. Peeta leans closer to Katniss and says something to her, gestures across the room toward Finnick’s right before leaving Katniss near the doors. She watches Peeta walk away.

“Speaking of someone who doesn’t like me…” Johanna and Mags both look up at him and he nods toward Katniss. “I have an alliance to work on.”

“You _still_ haven’t won her over?” Johanna rolls her eyes. “You’re losing it, Odair.”

Mags hoots at him and Finnick shrugs. “She’s stubborn,” he says as he slips past Johanna. “See you at lunch.”

He catches up to Katniss at the spear station when she stops to study the variety of weapons available there: javelin, halberd, dory, ranseur, trident. The instructor isn’t around and Katniss doesn’t seem to have noticed Finnick yet.

“Katniss, good morning.” She shifts her attention toward Finnick, but doesn’t really look at him. “Ready for another fun day of training?” She shrugs and lifts the trident from the rack of spears, turning half away from him, the move not contemptuous like that of the Careers a few minutes earlier, but still a dismissal. Trying again, he nods toward the trident she holds. “I have a proposal for you.”

“A proposal?” This time she does look at him and her gaze lights on his black eye. “What happened to you?”

Rather than repeating his speech from before her arrival, he waves her question off. “It’s nothing. I didn’t duck fast enough. Now, about that proposal…?”

She looks wary when she asks, “What do you want?”

With an internal sigh, Finnick thinks, _I should never have started out with her by flirting. Way too much of a Capitol thing to do._ “I watched you shoot yesterday,” he tells her. “I was impressed.” Which is only the truth, but she remains stone-faced. “Would you be willing to give me an hour of archery lessons in exchange for an hour of trident lessons?” He shrugs and gestures with one hand toward the rack. “Or any of the other spears. I’ve used them all at one time or another.”

“I’m no teacher.” She turns away. “Ask Tax to do it.”

“I’m asking you.” She’s looking at the trident again and he hopes that means she’s considering his trade, even if she sounds utterly uninterested.

“Tax knows what he’s doing,” she tells him.

Finnick snorts. “I have no intention of taking any more lessons from Tax.” She looks up sharply at that. “Ever," he adds for emphasis She doesn’t miss it when he shudders.

Frowning slightly, Katniss sets the trident back in its slot and shifts away from the rack of spears to lean back against the table, which contains dozens of variations on spear heads and cross-sections of the more common hafts used. Crossing her arms under her breasts, she states, “Tax is a good teacher.” She sounds defensive, making Finnick wonder if the man is a friend of hers.

“I’m sure he is,” Finnick says, trying to be diplomatic, just in case, “but he’s very… hands-on.” He leans against the table beside Katniss, mimicking her pose, and she rolls her eyes at him. “I don’t like being pawed at.”

She looks skeptical, but merely asks, “Why me?”

“Because you know what you’re doing, too, and _you_ have no designs on my virtue.”

She blinks, momentarily startled, then deadpans, “You have some? Virtues?”

“Ouch.” He claps his hand over his heart and falls backward on the table, making the spear heads rattle and almost making her laugh, but she fights it. He rights himself and grins at her. “Seriously, at least think about it.”

She stands and glances at the spears again. “Maybe,” she says and then walks away, heading toward Cecelia and Peeta, receiving instruction in the use of a slingshot at a station about thirty yards away.

“Haymitch,” Finnick says aloud, “I’m going to need a little help with this one.” He pushes off from the table just as Gloss and Brutus pass, cutting it too close. Gloss knocks into Finnick, shoving him hard into the table’s edge, making the spear heads and hafts rattle again. “Really, Gloss? Are you twelve?”

Brutus snickers, but otherwise ignores Finnick and keeps heading toward the fishing station. Gloss spins around and, walking backwards, says with a smirk, “Sorry, Finnick. Didn’t see you there.” He catches up to Brutus, the two of them joining Rye and the male from 10. Finnick doesn’t recall the man’s name, which Games he won or how, although he supposes he should find out, if he’s part of the Career pack now. _Maybe it’s time to watch some of those tapes Phineas brought._

Shaking his head, Finnick turns away from the male Careers just in time to see a similar scene play out near the shelter-making area as Cashmere knocks into Mags. The only things that save the old woman from a tumble to the floor are her cane and Seeder’s hand on her arm. Seeder, looking angry, says something to Cashmere, who stares at her impassively for a moment before strolling away.

“We are not playing that game.” Finnick quickly crosses the gym, heading in a straight line for Cashmere. When he reaches her, he shoves her against the nearest wall, an arm across her throat.

“Looking for a kiss, pretty boy?” Cashmere asks, her voice a little strained since he’s cutting off her air.

“Nah,” he tells her. “I’d rather kill you.” She opens her mouth to respond, but he presses harder. “Don’t mess with Mags again.” One final push – he feels her trachea and larynx shift, compressed against his forearm – and he backs off, releasing her.

Cashmere clutches at her throat, coughing, staring daggers at Finnick. “I’ll kill you for that, Odair.”

He smiles, full of teeth, devoid of humor. “You’re welcome to try.” Adrenaline still pumping through him, he turns his back on her and walks away, half expecting her to attack him. Instead, it’s Katniss who comes up beside him.

“What was that about?” she asks.

“Battle lines being drawn.” He doesn’t stop walking, still angry.

“I thought you were with the Careers.”

“No.” He looks down at her. “What do you want, Katniss?”

She shrugs, matching her pace to his. “I accept your proposal.”

Finnick stops and just looks at her for a moment. She seems to expect him to ask her why she changed her mind, but he all he says is, “Good.” He does want to know what made her decide to go with the exchange, but he can find that out later. Regardless of why, it’s a better chance at alliance than he's had with her so far. He smiles at her then, a real smile, very different from the one he gave Cashmere. “Start after lunch?” Katniss nods, a bemused expression on her face, as though she’s trying to figure him out. _Even better…_

“Yeah. We can do archery first, if you want,” she tells him.

“That sounds good. I’ll meet you at the range.” He feels her still watching him as he walks away, toward Mags and Seeder, who are talking together near the edible insects.

After reassuring himself that Mags is fine – it’s been a while since Finnick has seen his former mentor so furious – Finnick hangs out at the knot-tying station until the call to lunch sounds. He’s there for a good hour, maybe a little more, just tying knots and talking to Largo, the man running the station. The familiar and mindless motion, the easy conversation, helps him to relax and let go of some of the tension caused by his ongoing worry for Annie and the jackass behavior of the Careers.

Unlike the day before, the others are all slower to gather in the lunchroom, trickling in one or two at a time instead of in one large group. Because of that, Finnick half expects them to break things back up into the component tables, but that doesn’t seem to be the case when he and Mags get there. She hooks her cane on the back of a chair and Finnick helps her to sit before going to fill a tray for them both. This time, he doesn’t sample everything.

When he returns with their food, the water glasses that were already on the table are full and Mags is about to take a drink from hers, but Finnick sees what looks like a large crack on the edge of her glass. “Mags, you might want to use another glass.” It isn’t until she sets the glass down, scowling, that he realizes what he thought was a deep crack is in fact a three-pronged fish hook.

There’s a loud snicker from across the table and he glances in that direction to see Brutus and Cashmere watching Mags. Cashmere, her eyes shifting to Finnick, leans close to Brutus and says something that makes him laugh out loud. Finnick glares at them, shakes his head in amazement at their childishness – Brutus is old enough to be Finnick’s father – and starts to push off from the table, intending to go over there and start something. Mags lays a hand on his arm before he can follow through, stopping him.

“Sit,” she orders, and without waiting to see if he’ll obey, she removes the hook from her glass, raises it in a salute to Cashmere and Brutus, and then calmly drinks half her water. Only then does she glance at Finnick. “Mine,” she says with a barracuda grin, quickly turned toward Cashmere and Brutus, and Finnick is glad he’s not the one it’s intended for.

For the next few minutes, as more tributes trickle in and the room starts to fill with the buzz of conversation, Mags alternates between taking a bite of food and what looks like weaving a braid, although he can’t tell what she’s braiding. Every once in a while, she glances across the table at Cashmere and Brutus.

There are still a half dozen tributes missing from the lunchroom when Mags stands and makes a sharp motion over her head with her right hand. A moment later Cashmere shrieks and pushes back from the table like she’s been stung by a tracker jacker. Finnick glances at the table near Mags’ half empty plate, sees that the treble hook is gone; his suspicions are confirmed when he sees a bright red spot bloom on Cashmere’s perfect cheek.

“You _bitch_!” Cashmere shouts and starts to go around the table, her murderous gaze solidly on Mags, when she stops short. Finnick sees the distortion of her cheek as the hook pulls tight, the line Mags used catching on something. Brutus pushes Cashmere back down into her chair and starts following the line away from the hook, searching for the catch point.

Finnick leans back in his chair, laughing. “What did you use?” Mags winds a hank of her hair around her index finger. “Your hair?”

She nods. “Katniss’… idea.” Finnick is confused for half a second before he recalls that Katniss had used her own hair the day before to make a fishing line, delighting Mags with her ingenuity. Across the table Brutus is trying to remove the hook from Cashmere’s cheek.

“Careful, Brutus,” Finnick calls. “You don’t want to rip her face off.”

“I might,” Mags says, her words as clear as they would have been before her stroke and reminding him for a moment of Johanna, who is one of those still in the gym. But then Mags sighs. “Go help,” she tells Finnick.

“You sure?” She nods, so Finnick pushes away from the table and his half-eaten lunch and wanders over to where Brutus is still attempting to pull the hook from Cashmere’s cheek.

“If you’re here to gloat, you can leave,” Cashmere says when Finnick pulls out the chair beside her. He straddles it and crosses his arms over the back, studying the treble hook protruding from her otherwise flawless skin.

“I didn’t have to come all the way over here just to gloat.”

“What the fuck is her problem? Ow!” She shoves Brutus away and claps her hand to her cheek. “You’re making it worse, you moron.”

“I’m trying to help,” he spits out even as he backs off.

“Well, don’t.” She blinks back tears.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have tried to choke an old woman from District Four with a fish hook, Cash,” Finnick observes mildly. “That was never going to end well.”

With a glance at Brutus, she retorts, “I didn’t put it there.”

“No? You sure were entertained by it, though. And you did try to knock her over earlier.”

“That was an accident.”

“And that is a ripe load of chum.”

“If you’re not here to gloat, then why are you here, Finnick?” She’s still covering the hook and her injured cheek with her hand. Brutus is eating his lunch, since Cashmere won’t let him do anything else that might damage her face.

“Because Mags wanted me to retrieve the hook.”

“Are you kidding? That bi—”

“Watch it.”

“She could’ve blinded me! And now she wants the damn thing back?”

“Cash, please. You’re acting like she tried to kill you. You’d be hard pressed to find someone back home who hasn’t been hooked at least once in their life. No one ever died from it.” He doesn’t address blinding; Mags in her heyday could be considered a marksman with whatever weapon she chose, but neither her eyesight nor her hands are as steady as they once were.

“How am I supposed to get it out?”

“I told you, that’s why I’m here.” Finnick slides his chair in closer to Cashmere. “Move your hand.” She doesn’t uncover the hook, just stares at him. “Do you want me to remove it? Or would you rather just let Brutus here tear it out?”

“I don’t trust you.”

They’re staring at each other and Finnick is about to leave her to fend for herself when Gloss arrives. “What’s going on?”

“Cash?” Finnick asks.

She doesn’t look away from Finnick when she says, “Nothing, Gloss. Go grab something to eat.” Her brother raises an eyebrow in an eloquent display of skepticism, but then shrugs and heads to the food line. Cashmere drops her hand. “All right, Finnick. Fix it.”

He turns his chair to sit in it properly, pulls hers in between his legs and reaches out to tilt her head toward the light for a closer look. The rest of the missing tributes straggle in and join the food line, but no one gives Finnick and Cashmere a second glance. One tine of the hook has completely disappeared in her cheek. “Open your mouth,” he tells her and then hooks her cheek with his finger, pulling it wider to see if the hook is visible inside her mouth, which it is. “You bite me, Cashmere, and I’ll remove it the hard way,” he warns her.

“Just fix it.”

He carefully turns the hook so the shape of the barbed end lines up with the oblong hole in her cheek and then quickly pushes it back through. “If you’d used a more common hook, this would’ve been easier.”

“Just shut up and take it out.” Then she sees the hook he holds between two fingers. “You’re already done?”

“You’re welcome.” He stands and steps back. Pushing the chair back under the table, he drops the hook in Brutus’ glass as he passes behind him. A thin line of blood spirals up, dissipating in the water.

“What the fuck, Odair?”

Finnick grabs the back of the man’s chair and exerts enough force to shift it toward him as he leans down to look Brutus in the eye. “Leave Mags alone,” he says and then walks away. No one says a word to him as he exits the lunchroom. He returns to the gym and the rest of the afternoon passes, including his archery lesson with Katniss, without further incident.

xXx

Annie is on her way from the common area to the room she and Finnick share when he and Mags return from training. She stops when she hears his voice, the sound of it sending a wave of lust shooting through every nerve ending in her body so strongly that she’s unable to move forward. Blinking at the shock of it, she grips the back of the couch to keep from stumbling, looks up to see Finnick’s gaze fixed on her. He knows. She feels her blood rising, shivers at the contrast of the air conditioning against her suddenly flushed cheeks.

He responds to something Martin says, but the only thing Annie hears is the low timber of Finnick’s voice. Momentarily light headed, she sways and her fingers dig into the cool leather. She closes her eyes and when she opens them again, Mags is looking at her with one brow raised in silent question and Finnick is gone, the door to their bedroom closing.

“You alright, Annie?” Martin asks and she nods.

“I’m fine.” Not caring what they think, without another word she turns and follows Finnick. She doesn’t know where this sudden hunger for his touch comes from, but she’s not going to waste it: they have so little time left before the arena. Her mind shies away from any further thought of the Games – there’s just too much to lose.

Once inside their room, her eyes follow the trail of shed clothing that leads to the bathroom door and its open invitation. Dropping her own to join his, Annie steps naked into the bathroom and closes the door behind her. The shower is already running, steam rising, condensing on the outside of its walls, spreading through the room in wispy swirls and running in rivulets down the mirror. She opens the door and slips inside.

Finnick stands with his back to her, his forehead against the tile as hot water pounds into his shoulders. Cupping one hand beneath the soap dispenser, she spreads the slippery gel over both hands before sliding her arms around his waist and pressing her body against his backside. She doesn’t say anything, no words are necessary. She isn’t surprised to find that he’s already hard. Opening her mouth, she grazes her teeth over his left shoulder and a shudder runs through his body as he turns toward her, but she doesn’t let him pull her into his arms.

Her hands glide over his skin as she washes him. She already knows every inch of him, but every stroke of her hands is as though she’s touching him for the first time. She never wants it to end. No longer leaning against the wall, he stands closer to the center of the shower and she moves around him, dances away when he tries to catch her, to kiss her. By the time she runs her soapy hands over his hips and thighs, sinks to her knees to wash his calves and lower, lifts one foot to slide her palm across the sole, his breathing is ragged, harsh. He steadies himself with one hand against the shower wall. And when she finally rises, he pulls her up against his body, not letting her deny him again, slanting his mouth over hers in a kiss that makes her toes curl.

He crowds her up against the shower wall and she shivers at the cold kiss of the tile against her shoulders, too high for the water to warm the surface. He holds her there with his body, shifts so he can lean down to suck at her nipple before he reaches for the soap and washes her as she washed him. He doesn’t let her do anything to speed his movements as he lingers over all the places he knows drive her mad. Her knees give out and she slides down the wall. Finnick follows, cradling her head in the palm of his hand to keep her from hitting it on the tile, only then pushing into her. He kisses her hungrily and she moans into his mouth, incapable of forming words.

She wraps her legs around his hips as he strokes into her, sucks at his collarbones, nips and licks at his skin – _I don’t care about all the others, Finnick, you’re mine_ – digs her nails into his back and shoulders, marking him as hers as the tension coils within her. The hot water cascading over them, his body stiffens as his orgasm takes him with a wordless cry; the sound of his voice in that moment breaks her into pieces around him.

They lay there under the water, pulses gradually slowing, their breathing approaching a more normal pace when he finally pulls out of her, slides an arm around her, pulls her into the circle of his body as he shifts to sit with his back against the wall. One hand splayed over her cheek and jaw, he catches her mouth again. They’re too close to the flow, water sluicing into their mouths and Annie laughs.

“We’ll drown,” she says and Finnick tightens his arms around her.

“We won’t drown.” But even so, he shifts them along the wall until the water no longer hits either of them in the face.

She reaches a hand up to cup the back of his head, to pull his face down until she can kiss his left eye. “Did it get rough in training?”

He laughs, the sound and feel of it rippling through her. “You did that, love.”

“I did?” He nods and kisses her forehead. “Oh, Finnick, I’m sorry. When did I…? _Why_ did I hit you?”

He sucks at the pulse point below her right ear. “You had a nightmare and I got in the way,” he murmurs, his words muffled.

“I don’t remember it.” She frowns. “There’s a lot I don’t remember.” He pulls back a little.

“You will,” he whispers, his breath tickling a drop of water collected on her ear lobe, and Annie knows that she was right, that his note did mean there was something wrong, that something happened to her.

She turns to look at him. “Why can’t I remember, Finnick?”

She sees guilt in his eyes, hears it in his voice, feels it in the tensing of his muscles when he says, “Because I gave you something to make you forget.” A knock on the bathroom door stops him from saying anything more.

“Supper,” Mags calls from the other side of the door. She doesn’t wait for a response and a moment later they hear the outer door close.

Finnick reaches up to shut off the water. When his muscles tense to stand, Annie takes his hand and kisses his wrist, holding him there. “Finnick?” The guilt in him frightens her because she doesn’t know why he should feel it. “What did you give me?”

He pulls her up against him, hits the button to start the dryer. “Oblivion, and baby, I promise, you’ll remember everything in a few more hours.” His gaze slides away from hers, but she reaches up and takes his face between both of her hands, forcing him to look at her.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

He takes her hands in his and kisses her palms. “Snow said something to you that… triggered an episode. It was like you’d just come out of the arena.” She blinks. That isn’t anything like what she expected. “I can’t tell you everything because I don’t know everything. You wouldn’t tell me what he said and no one else heard it.”

“Okay.” She doesn’t remember any of it. President Snow said something to her? The dryer shuts off and she follows Finnick to the bedroom to dress, still poking at her memories like a sore tooth. Nothing comes of that save the realization that Finnick is still evading her question and she needs to know why. Pulling a shirt over her head, she pushes her arms through the sleeves and asks, “Did I know you were giving me drugs?”

“Yes.” He shoots her a look. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“Then why do you feel guilty?” He stops dead in the middle of pulling on his own shirt, silent and motionless for a beat, before answering.

“I guess…” He pulls the shirt down over his torso. “Haymitch was pretty pissed that I gave you anything at all and…” He shrugs. “He made me question my motives.” He reluctantly meets her eyes. “Oblivion is pretty powerful stuff and some of the side effects…”

 _Ah, so it’s the side effects of the drug that he’s worried about._ She closes the gap between them, puts her arms around him and rests her cheek against his chest. Without hesitation, he closes his arms around her and nuzzles his face into her hair. “What does it do?” she asks. “What side effects?” His arms tighten.

“Annie…”

“We’ve already had this conversation, haven’t we?”

“Yes.”

“And I’ll remember that, too, in a few hours?”

“Yes.” She feels it when he smiles into her hair.

She trusts him. Sometimes more than she trusts herself. Sometimes he’s the only thing that’s solid, the only real thing in her world, and this is no different. “Okay. Let’s go eat.” They quickly finish dressing and, holding hands, join the others in the dining room.

Dinner is quiet and simple, consisting of lamb and vegetable stew served with a coarse, hearty bread from District 9. It’s only the four victors and Phineas LaSalle, the stylists and their prep teams ordered home until the day of the interviews. Phineas, who tells them about the order, doesn’t say why. Annie shivers and Finnick looks sharply at her, but says nothing as she pulls her hand from his and sits.

Finnick tucks into his food like he’s starving. When he notices the others watching, he swallows a bite of stew and with a glance at Mags, says, “Lunch was cut short.” After that brief explanation, he slows down, but he still helps himself to a second full bowl of stew and more bread.

“So how was your day, Annie?” Phineas asks. “Better than yesterday, I trust?” Everyone’s attention turns to her and she’s glad that the stylists and prep teams aren’t there, although she’s worried that she may be the cause. Was Cinna sent home, too, or is he being held somewhere, awaiting punishment for helping her?

“It was okay.” She takes a bite of the stew, not elaborating, hoping that the conversation will just move on. Martin dashes those hopes.

“’Okay,’ she says.” He laughs, but Annie hears the concern beneath the sound. “No day involving Peacekeepers is ‘okay.’”

Finnick’s spoon clatters against his bowl when he doesn’t lift it high enough. Instead of taking another bite, he lays the utensil down and focuses on Annie. “Peacekeepers? Spill.” She looks down at her bowl, but says nothing. “Annie?”

“It was nothing.” She doesn’t look up at him, just picks at the edge of the tablecloth.

“If you’re not going to tell him, Annie, I will.” She glares at Martin, but remains stubbornly silent. Martin looks at Finnick then Mags. “Peacekeepers delivered her to the victors’ lounge around three this afternoon. She was picked up on a cable car headed to the train station.”

Annie sighs and lays down her own spoon. Finnick leans back in his chair and then shifts to face her. “This ought to be good.”

“I was going home.” An unexpected wave of anxiety courses through her along with the thought _Finnick is your home_.

“How were you planning to get there?” he asks. “You have no money and I doubt they’d authorize payment through the Victors’ Fund.”

Feeling like a child called to task by her elders, she says, a little defensively, “You went home from here without any money, and without using the Victors’ Fund.”

His expression turns bleak. “You know how I paid for that trip. Were you going to do that, too?”

Tears sting behind her eyes and she blinks rapidly to hold them back. She looks down at her stew and, no longer at all hungry, pushes it away. “No, I wasn’t.” She bends toward the table, almost instinctively trying to hide. “Please, Finnick…” She covers her ears with her hands. “I don’t want to be used against you,” she whispers. She wants to tell him everything, about Cinna and Portia and how Cinna helped her, but she can’t, not with Phineas there, not with the listening devices she’s sure must be there, too.

There’s a scrape of wood on wood and then Finnick pulls her into his arms. “Hey, it’s okay, Annie. Hush,” he whispers into her hair. “I’m sorry. We can talk about it later.” She nods, relaxing into him as he changes the subject. “Phineas, do we have the tapes of the other tributes’ Games?”

“Of course, Finnick.” Phineas looks at Annie like she’s some odd sea creature that he has never seen before but that he finds both fascinating and worrisome.

“Good. I think Nine and Ten are allying with the Careers and I’d like to watch their Games. I was too young when they competed to pay attention to how they played or won.”

“Well, if you’d like to head into the common room, I’ll go get the tapes. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to talk strategy.” Phineas wipes his mouth and lays his napkin down on the table, tucking it neatly under his bowl. Standing, he tucks his chair beneath the table just as neatly before heading to his room.

“Annie, will you be okay watching with us, or would you rather…?” Finnick trails off with a short laugh. “There’s not really much to do around here, is there?”

She shakes her head. “I want to stay with you.”

He nods. “Okay, we’ll keep the sound down low and you can hide against me all you want.” He smiles then and she reaches up, touches his lips with the tips of her fingers.

“Deal.”

The victors arrange themselves around the television in the common room while LaSalle queues up the appropriate Games. On the couch, Annie snuggles in between Finnick’s arm and body, rests her head on his chest. Closing her eyes, she just lets him hold her while she pushes everything else away. As promised, they keep the sound down low and it blends with the conversation, lulling Annie into a kind of twilight state, halfway between sleep and wakefulness.

_Dead blue eyes. Cool, dry hands gripping hers. The scent of roses and blood and her own fear. “Join us, Annie.” The slow descent, step by step, into a yawning abyss. “I’m sure Finnick has taught you well.”_

Annie’s eyes fly open and she chokes off a gasp, struggles to remain motionless, but fails and turns the motion into something closer to a simple shifting twitch. She forces her muscles to relax, not wanting anything to cause Finnick a moment’s concern. She remembers everything. Meeting the other mentors. The greedy expression in the President’s eyes when he looked at her, the anticipation in his voice.

She remembers, too, Finnick telling her about the Oblivion, that it would take away the fear along with the memory of what caused it and that when those memories returned, they’d be remote, like something that happened to someone else. Unconsciously, she flattens the palm of her hand over Finnick’s heart. She feels the bunching and relaxing of his muscles when he glances down at her before returning his attention to the television and to something Martin says.

Annie needs to talk to someone about Snow and her fears, but it can’t be Finnick. Probably Mags, but she doesn’t know when. Not tonight. A low sound reaches her ears, a boy crying out in pain, and she pushes her face into the crook of Finnick’s arm; he reflexively tightens his arms around her. She closes her eyes and puts a hand over her exposed ear.

She doesn’t know how much later it is that Finnick wakes her with a light kiss on her forehead and a soft “Annie.”

She sits up and blinks owlishly. The others are gone. “I fell asleep.”

He grins. “I know.” He takes hold of one hand, raises it to his lips and kisses her knuckles. “Are you up for telling me about this afternoon?”

She scrunches her eyes shut to clear them of sleep before answering, “No, but yes.” She looks around the common area. “Not here.”

He stands, not releasing her hand. “Let’s go up to the roof.”

Neither of them says anything else as they wait for the elevator. Once inside, one hand on the glass and the other holding Finnick’s, Annie watches the people moving around in the lobby below grow smaller and smaller as the elevator rises. When the doors open, Finnick leads her to another door, one marked “Emergency Exit Only,” and pushes it open. A sweet-scented breeze greets them, bringing with it dozens of tinkling chimes, a cacophony of unexpectedly delicate sound.

The moon is high overhead, bright and full, or near to it, reminding Annie of their last night on the beach in District 4, and a wave of homesickness washes over her. “I miss the sea.”

Finnick pulls her back against him and wraps his arms around her. “So do I.” He rests his chin on the top of her head. “You can talk freely up here. Their listening devices can’t cope with the wind or the chimes, so they don’t even bother anymore.”

She relaxes back into him, lays her arms over his, weaves her fingers with his, and thinks about what she wants to say. “I think maybe the stylists were sent home because of me.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Cinna and Portia, the stylists from District Twelve, took me to lunch this afternoon. Peacekeepers tried to stop me from leaving the Training Center, but Portia wouldn’t let them.”

“Wouldn’t let them? What’d she do?”

“Mostly gave them attitude.” He smiles into her hair. “She told them they were being ridiculous and that of course I was allowed to go to lunch with them, that mentors and visiting victors can go wherever they please. She was very fierce.”

“I like her already. And she’s right, or at least that’s how it normally is for the Games. So long as you’re where you’re supposed to be for the Games themselves, there aren’t many restrictions on victors. None that most people would notice, anyway.” He loosens his hold on her, pulls away and heads over to the wall, sliding down it to sit, his back against the brick. He looks up at her. “Cinna again. Should I be jealous?”

Annie smiles and sits beside him, pulls his arm around her shoulders and snuggles into his side. The view of the garden from that vantage is all gorgeous flowers bathed in silver moonlight. “No, Finnick, but he did help me again. He gave me a card that he thought had enough on it to pay for a train ticket home, if I found an agent who would overlook my lack of documents.”

“Why would he do that?”

“He said he’s seen some disturbing things in the past year and that he couldn’t discount my fears of being used against you.”

“Did you use the card?”

She nods. “I used it to pay for the cable car fare.” He doesn’t say anything for a while and Annie bites her lip. “Did I get him in trouble, Finnick? Did they send the other stylists home to hide that they’ve done something to Cinna?”

He takes a deep breath and carefully considers his words before answering. “They won’t hurt him, Annie. The interviews are in a couple of days and he has to be there. There’ll be too many questions if he isn’t.”

She isn’t reassured. “I screwed up, Finnick. I should never have tried to leave.” She swallows past the lump in her throat, past the threatening tears. “Are you angry with me?”

“What? No. Why would I be angry with you? Part of me wishes you'd succeeded, that you were home safe. Away from this place.” He tilts her head up toward his face, leans down to brush his lips over hers. “The rest of me is selfishly glad you’re here, because I don’t think I could get through this without you.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes, listening to the chimes and the song of the wind, watching the flowers and greenery of the garden dance to the atonal song. “It was just a cable car fare,” he says eventually. “They can’t prove you were trying to leave the Capitol.”

“Cinna said he’d claim the card was lost, if he was asked.”

“Does it have his name on it?”

“No, I don’t think so.” She doesn’t recall anything but swirls of color that changed with the light.

“Good. You could claim you found it and didn’t know who it belonged to. Capitol citizens don’t think too highly of us from the districts. They’ll believe you didn’t know any better.” He kisses her forehead. “We should be getting back. We can stop on twelve and see if Haymitch knows anything about your Cinna.”

Shaking her head, Annie says, “It’s late. I can ask Haymitch about him when I see him in the victors’ lounge tomorrow. It’s not as though we could do anything about it if they did take him into custody.” She feels just as helpless now as she did at home, whenever President Snow summoned Finnick to the Capitol. There’s nothing she can do but accept it and move on.

“Do you still have that card? Or did the Peacekeepers confiscate it?”

“I still have it.”

“Good. That’s good. If they didn’t take it, it’s even less likely that Cinna is in any real trouble because of it.” Finnick extricates himself from Annie and stands, reaching down to offer her his hand. “Shall we?” She allows him to pull her up and they walk hand in hand back into the Training Center.


	17. Wipe Out the Noise

**Chapter Seventeen – Wipe Out the Noise**

Lunch is over, the clock above the door ticking its way into the afternoon, and still no call for individual training sessions. Twenty three tributes sit around the lunch table, and all are required to stay until called by the Gamemakers. The only one missing is old Woof from 8 and speculation was rampant for a while that he got lost on the way to training or forgot why he was here or that he just went home, but that got old fast.

Looking around the table at all the bored faces, Finnick knows that it’s going to be a very long afternoon. The only good thing about it is that District 4 will be finished far earlier than the poor kids from 12. He and Mags should be able to leave just a couple of hours or so after the individual sessions begin. _Of course, if they never start…_ He pulls the piece of rope someone threw at him the day before from his pocket and begins working knots.

It’s nearly 2:00 when nerves begin to noticeably fray. It starts with Johanna. Or possibly Enobaria. Johanna drums her fingers on the table, and since most conversation trickled long minutes earlier, when the remains of their lunch were finally cleared away, it sounds much louder than it should.

“Would you please stop that?” Enobaria asks mildly. Finnick isn’t used to such a polite request from the usually blunt woman. Johanna doesn’t even glance her way, just keeps on drumming her fingers, adding in a little tap of her nails against the tabletop for good measure. Enobaria gives it another couple of minutes, then says, “Seriously, give it a rest.”

Johanna looks up at her. “Fuck off.” The drumming and tapping continue. Finnick is already out of his chair and on his way around the table when Enobaria slams her hand down hard on Johanna’s, silencing the drumming. He’s close enough to hear Jo’s knuckles pop, forcibly straightened, to see the fury in her eyes.

“You little—” One hand trapped beneath Enobaria’s, Johanna surges up from her chair. She closes her free hand around the larger woman’s throat, her nails digging in. Finnick and Brutus each grab a combatant, dragging her off the other before either does any real damage, although Johanna’s fingers leave an impressive half ring around the front and right side of Enobaria’s throat.

“Easy, Jo.” Finnick tightens his grip around her waist as she struggles to break free, physically picking her up off the floor, limbs flailing. He wants to laugh, knowing how comical it must look, but he doesn’t want a broken nose and so he chokes it down.

“I’ll kill her!” Jo snarls.

“I know. I know.” He keeps going, carries her out into the hall so Johanna can no longer see her nemesis. “Save it for the arena,” he tells her when he puts her down. She slumps against the wall and Finnick can’t recall the last time he saw her look so miserable. He reaches out a hand and strokes his knuckles over her jaw. “Jo…”

She looks up at him. “I’m fine, Finnick.” She looks away again and he knows she doesn’t want him to see the raw emotion in her dark eyes. “Those fuckers don’t even care. They’re happy to go back into the arena.”

“Brutus and Enobaria?”

“Yeah. Fucking Careers. All those two care about is the Games.”

He leans back against the wall beside her, his arm brushing hers. “You know that’s not true.” But she’s not listening, caught up in whatever it is that’s truly bothering her.

“Cashmere and Gloss are almost as bad. They’re just wrapped up in each other instead of the Games.” She crosses her arms under her breasts, props one foot against the wall. “Nuts is perfectly happy to follow Volts around.” Her voice becomes less angry, more subdued. “Even the damn morphlings have each other to talk to, which is good since no one else can follow them anyway.” Her voice is barely above a whisper when she says, “I don’t even have you to harass anymore.”

“That’s not true, either, Jo.” _So that’s what’s bugging her? No one to talk to?_ When she doesn’t respond, he pushes away from the wall, crouches down in front of her so she has to look at him, and rests his chin on her upraised knee. “I’m right here.”

She rolls her eyes at him but doesn’t look away. “No you’re not. You’re with Annie.” He blinks, taken aback, but before he can say anything, she continues. “I don’t begrudge you that, Finnick.” She frowns. “I’m glad you at least get this little bit of time with her, it’s just…”

“What?”

“You have her. I have _Blight_.” She snorts. “Or Acer. Between the two of them, they might have half a brain cell.” She gives him a wry twist of her lips, not quite a smile. “Not much of a contest.”

“I don’t know, Jo. Acer’s kind of hot.” Acer, the District 7 mentor for the Quell, is in his fifties and won his Games by default. He’s a nice enough guy, if a bit too literal, but he’s definitely not someone Johanna could ever have a serious conversation with. Or any conversation, really. She doesn’t have the patience.

Johanna shoves against Finnick’s chest with her knee, knocking him off balance; he laughs and catches himself, kneeling, rocked back on his ankles. “You know, Odair, much as I like the idea of you on your knees in front of me, it might get embarrassing if anyone happens to wander down this hall.” She offers him her hand and he takes it, lets her help him up. She’s serious again when she says, “You’re the only friend I have, Finnick.” Yet another thing he knows isn’t true, but he doesn’t call her on it. “I don’t want to lose you.”

He cups her cheek in his hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Your Annie might want—”

He interrupts. “’My Annie’ knows all about you and me, Jo.”

“All?” She arches one skeptical brow.

“All.” He smiles and shrugs. “Maybe not all the gory details.”

She studies him for a few seconds and he knows she’s deciding whether or not he’s lying – he isn’t; he’s never kept his relationship with Jo a secret from Annie – then shifts her head and nips at the heel of his hand. “Okay, you’ve done your job. I promise not to kill Enobaria outside of the arena.” She pats his cheek and slips past him, heading back into the lunchroom and he follows a moment later. Rather than returning to her seat near the Careers, she steals his chair next to Mags so Finnick gives her a shove closer to the old woman and swings an empty chair between Johanna and Cecelia, who slides to the left to give him a little more room.

Finnick returns to tying knots, his fingers flying as he weaves the thin rope into increasingly more difficult patterns only to pick them out again moments later. He closes his eyes and leans back, slipping down into his chair until he can rest his head on the back of it, unconsciously mimicking Johanna’s posture. He lets his mind drift, fingers still working the rope as memories wash over him and retreat like the relentless tide, leaving nothing but vague impressions in the sand. Nothing sticks, nothing stays, until…

He’d been home from the Capitol for a couple of days and made it a point to see and talk to no one. The visit had been bad, not quite as bad as during the last Games, the 70th, when he had to both mentor and entertain and then afterwards, with Annie alive but so lost and broken, but it had still left him feeling unfit for human company. He dreaded the thought of her victory tour, only a couple months away. Victory tours were never a good time, not for him, not for the new victor, and given Annie’s precarious mental state, this one promised to be a nightmare all its own.

Sitting alone on the beach, he worked knots to give his hands something to do, to give his mind something other than his own thoughts to focus on. He’d been there for hours, unable to sleep, too tired to keep pacing across the sand. The palest shade of pink was just lightening the sky overhead, creeping out from behind but not yet touching the dark water in front of him, when Annie found him. When he’d left for the Capitol, she still lived in her grandmother’s little house on the mainland, was dealing with her grandmother’s recent illness and death and working out the details of that, not even thinking about moving to Victors’ Island. Finnick had helped her as much as he could before the unexpected summons came, and then Mags had taken over, since Annie couldn’t really deal with it all on her own.

“Annie.” Her presence beside him was startling, a dark silhouette against the deep salmon sky. “I guess you’ve moved into your new house?”

She nodded and wrapped her arms around herself. “It’s too big. Empty.” She looked up toward the row of dark houses, but he didn’t know which one was hers, only knew which ones were not. “No one lives there.”

His fingers stilled on the rope, pulled it violently tight, straightening out the half-formed knot with an audible snap. He took a second to get himself under control before he asked carefully, “What about you? Don’t you live there?” Keeping his voice even was a struggle.

“I died.”

He looked at her sharply. There was enough light by then that he could just begin to see the green of her eyes, could see the inward-looking expression that the people in the Capitol, the ones who waited with him backstage before her final interview and who later sat beside him in the audience, called “vacant.” The look in her eyes was anything but vacant. No. It was far more accurate to say that it was too full of the things she’d seen, of the things she’d done and that had been done to her.

“You’re not dead, Annie.”

“No?” She was unconvinced. He heard it in her voice. He tried another tack.

“Do you remember after the arena, when we waited for the closing ceremonies of your Games?” Mentioning the arena or the Games was always risky, but she was already in a bad place, so he didn’t think his question could hurt her any further.

Dropping to her knees beside him on the sand, she frowned and said, “I talked to Mr. Flickerman.”

“Yes, you did, but before that. When you still weren’t sure what was real and what wasn’t.”

She smiled. “You were real. You told me what else was real, when I asked.” Still smiling, she leaned in close, whispered, “I didn’t always believe you.”

“Do you believe me now?”

Her smile faded along with the light in her eyes. A breeze started to blow in from the water and caught loose strands of her hair, making them dance around her face. Finnick shivered. He wanted her smile to come back along with that light, wanted the tight feeling in his chest to go away.

Minutes passed, Finnick didn’t know how many, before she asked, “Do I believe you about what?” At first he thought she had simply lost the thread of conversation and then found it again, a thing that happened all too often, but her gaze quickly slid away from his and he knew that she was hiding.

“You’re alive, Annie.” She began to blink rapidly, leaned forward until her body was folded over her knees and then she lifted her hands to cover her ears, her hair falling in a dark curtain around her face. “You’re home now. You’re safe. No one will hurt you here.”

“That’s not true.” Her voice was muffled. “Nowhere is safe.” He felt his heart breaking.

He shifted, let his rope fall to the sand as he moved in front of her and took another chance, gently pulling her hands away from her ears. “Annie, listen to me.” Still huddled into herself, she lifted her head. She didn’t try to pull away. “I won’t let anyone hurt you. Do you believe that?” He could see her watching him from behind her hair.

“Maybe,” she said eventually. “But what about when they hurt you?”

Mags’ voice brings him back to the lunchroom as she repeats his name, asks him if he has a plan for the Gamemakers. Everyone is still there around the table. There has been no call for individual sessions yet. He straightens up and pulls at the rope in his hands, destroying his latest knot. “I have no idea what I’m going to do. How about you?” He shakes off the memories and shoots her a grin. “Still thinking about a nap?” She laughs and lets loose with a string of words.

“Enunciate, dammit,” Johanna says irritably. “No one knows what the hell you’re going on about.” Finnick shoots Jo a look.

“She said she’s absolutely going to nap. If the Gamemakers can’t be arsed to care about whether any of us lives or dies, she can’t be arsed to care whether or not they’re impressed by what she can do.”

“You’re making that up,” Jo accuses, but he can see she only half believes it.

Mags hoots and nods her head, points at Finnick and says quite clearly, “True.”

It’s only a few seconds later that a woman’s voice sounds throughout the lunch room. “District One male, report to training.” Finnick glances at Johanna and Mags, one brow raised.

“Just district number and gender? I think we’ve been demoted.” _Or maybe it’s just an acknowledgment of the way the Gamemakers and the government truly see us. We’re all just property of the Capitol_. Another flash of memory strikes him, of the night, weeks ago now, that Jack Hull killed himself, when Finnick had said something to that effect to Head Peacekeeper Leto.

Gloss stands and shoots Finnick a cocky grin. “They’ll remember my name when I’m done.” Finnick just rolls his eyes and waves him off.

“Knock ‘em dead, little brother!” Cashmere calls after him.

Finnick looks at Jo. “If only…” he says, which gets a sharp look from both Peeta and Katniss, but no one else pays it any attention.

One by one they’re called until it’s Finnick’s turn. He unfolds himself from his chair and slips his rope back into his pocket. He drops a kiss on the top of Mags’ head and, wishing her a good nap, heads for the gym. He still has no idea what he’s going to do.

When he walks through the door, the gymnasium is as it was when he first arrived that morning, no sign of use at any of the stations, nothing that could give away what the six men and women before him might have done. Finnick stops in the center of the room and looks up, facing the Gamemakers. He looks at each one in turn. Heavensbee nods almost imperceptibly, the only one to acknowledge Finnick’s presence by anything other than taking notes. Finnick shrugs and makes a circuit of the stations.

Most of them provide little interest, let alone inspiration. He picks up a coil of lightweight rope from the knot-tying station and, on impulse, a bow and arrows from the archery range. _Might as well try out my new skills._ He stops near the plant identification station, ties one end of a length of rope – the coil he picked up turned out to be two separate lengths – to the end of an arrow and shoots it toward the metal beams along the ceiling, but it sticks, so he yanks it back down and tries again, using much less pull on the bowstring for his second shot.

The arrow falls back to the floor, leaving the rope trailing behind over a beam. He tightens up the rope and ties off the loose end to the table leg so the arrow hangs freely, then sets it to swinging wildly. Taking hold of the other slender piece of rope, he ties a quick lasso and uses it to easily catch the arrow before setting it free to swing wildly again. He scoops up one of Seeder’s knife-edged palm fronds from the table beside him, careful to grab the stem, and uses it to slice the arrow free. He catches it before it falls to the floor and snatches up the abandoned bow in one smooth motion.

And then, unable to think of another thing to do that doesn’t feel even more ridiculous, he says, “You know what? Give me whatever marks you want. I don’t care. I’m done.” With that, he lifts the bow, sets arrow to string, and releases it into the overhead light fixtures closest to the Gamemakers, shattering it with a pop and a shower of broken glass, some of which bounces back from the force field that surrounds them.

They don’t dismiss him, he still has at least five minutes remaining on his time, but he heads for the door, knocking over the table of edged weapons on his way past. _Mags is right. If they can’t be arsed to care about me as a human being, they really don’t deserve my respect._ He wonders what Gloss did to make them remember his name, wonders if they’ll remember _his_. With a look that dares them to stop him, Finnick walks out. He’s halfway to the elevators when it occurs to him that he should wait for Mags.

He stops before he reaches the elevators and turns around, heads back toward the door through which he just left. Leaning his head and shoulders against the wall, he tries hard not to think about what’s coming all too soon.

xXx

Annie spends the day shadowing Martin in the victors’ lounge, picking up tips from him and from a few of the other victors in the room – not all of them are willing to talk to her – on How to Be a Mentor. There are certain things you can’t say when talking to a potential sponsor. You can’t make demands. You can’t threaten. There are things you can send to the arena as gifts and there are things you can’t. Weapons are good, but expensive. So is medicine and food. Bandages and simpler things for first aid are fine, but water isn’t. Recreational drugs and alcohol are both forbidden, although Martin tells her a story of a tribute from District 11 who managed to distill alcohol by combining fruit he found in the arena with bread he received from a sponsor. Annie isn’t sure she believes that story.

After lunch, Martin, Haymitch, and Rae show her how the control room works and the more technical aspects of delivering gifts to the right place and person at the right time. Haymitch claims there’s an art to it, but Martin says it’s mostly paying attention to what’s happening in the arena and making sure you know how much money your tributes have available to use. Annie’s pretty sure they’re both right. Rae points out that if the equipment isn’t working properly, it’s all moot anyway, which reminds Annie of that first time she saw Rae, her legs sticking out from under the control console. She laughs.

By the time Annie and Martin return to the Training Center, she’s sure it’s late enough in the day that Finnick will be done with training, done with the final session with the Gamemakers, but he and Mags are still not back. Phineas tries to interest her in a game of cards, but Annie declines, instead going to her room to lie down. The drug Finnick gave her is long gone from her system, her memories returned, but she still hasn’t had the chance to process everything.

She curls up on the bed, her face buried in Finnick’s pillow, but instead of the thinking she intended, Annie falls asleep. She doesn’t dream. She wakes to Finnick lying next to her, one arm bent and his head propped up on his hand as he watches her sleep. He smiles and it feels like home.

“Tough day?” he asks.

“Not so much.” She slides closer to him, rests her head in the crook of his arm so he has to crane his neck at a sharp angle to look down at her. “I think my brain is full, though.”

He laughs, one of her favorite sounds in the world. “Your brain is full?”

She smiles. “I think Martin and Haymitch tried to stuff everything they know about mentoring into it.” He strokes the hair from her face and leans down to kiss her forehead. “I’m pretty sure Martin was telling fish tales, though, just to keep up with Haymitch.”

“Haymitch has been a mentor for a long time.”

She rolls onto her back so she can see Finnick better. “What about you? How did it go with the Gamemakers?”

He makes a face. “It went.” She cups his face in her hand, runs her thumb over his lower lip. “I’ll be lucky to get a five out of it.”

“I don’t believe you.” She follows her thumb with her mouth, stretching up to kiss him and he sinks into it for a lingering moment before breaking it off.

“We’ll see.” He sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed, stands, and offers her his hand. “Hungry? Because I’m starving.” She takes his hand, doesn’t notice the glint of mischief in his eyes, and he pulls her up hard against his chest. She shrieks with laughter when he swings her over his shoulder and carries her from their room to the dining room, depositing her into a chair.

Supper is simple District 4 fare, again with only the four victors and Phineas LaSalle there to eat. At least, Annie thinks it was supposed to be simple. In the center of the table is an enormous paella, but there are far too many different types of fish and shellfish layered over the top to ever be considered simple. It smells wonderful, though. A dark-skinned Avox scoops portions onto plates and another Avox, as pale as the other is dark, serves. The two of them remain until everyone is finished eating and then quickly whisk the remains and the used dishes away.

Over dinner, Phineas tells them that the stylists and prep teams will return the following day, although he can’t think there will be anything for them to do. The other district teams are already back in the Training Center, but Rafe and Rialla stayed away, working on something Rialla said would be “a disaster if the creative flow is interrupted.” Although the dismissal and subsequent recall of the style teams is a mystery, Annie is glad to know that Cinna isn’t locked up somewhere. Haymitch knew nothing when she spoke to him earlier in the day.

Following supper, they gather in front of the television in the common area to wait for the training scores. Annie sits on one end of the couch, her legs curled under her, snuggling against Finnick. His legs are stretched out, bare feet on the table in front of him, his legs crossed at the ankles. He never did change out of the black shirt and trousers he trained in. He plays with Annie’s hair, twirling strands of it around and around his finger. Mags sits on Finnick’s other side, her head resting on his shoulder, his arm along the back of the couch behind her.

“I’ve got to say, I’m feeling a little left out, here,” Martin complains from the other end of the couch. Annie looks at him across Finnick and Mags. No one asks him to explain and Martin sighs dramatically.

“Fine,” Finnick says. “I’ll bite. Why are you feeling left out, Martin?” The older man’s expression brightens and Annie bites her lip to keep from laughing.

“You have a beautiful woman on each arm and all I have is Phineas.” He makes a sweeping gesture toward the district rep, sitting in an overstuffed chair beside the couch. Phineas looks up from his magazine to stare at Martin for a moment, then returns to reading, licking one finger and using it to turn the page. Martin seems to deflate.

Mags pokes Martin. “What?” she asks.

He slumps farther down on the couch. “Aw, don’t mind me. I just miss my wife.” For once, he actually sounds serious. There were several times during the afternoon that he seemed distracted and Annie thinks it must have had something to do with Elena. Martin confirms that thought when he says, "Her dad has been sick, so she's been staying with her parents in the northern part of the district. I haven't seen her in almost a month."

“I’m sorry, Martin,” Annie says and relaxes against Finnick again. She resolves to encourage Martin to talk about Elena the next time they’re alone.

Finnick kisses Annie on the forehead and settles into the couch, letting his head drop to the back as he closes his eyes. “Wake me when they announce the scores,” he says and Mags pokes him.

“Thought … don’t _care_.”

“I don’t. Not about mine, anyway. I just want to see how badly Jo pissed them off.”

Annie is drifting, comfortable and half asleep when a sports broadcast ends and the Hunger Games anthem begins to play. _“We are live at the Hunger Games Training Center where the scores for this year’s tributes are about to be released,”_ some anonymous, androgynous talking head announces. Finnick lifts his head, but doesn’t move otherwise; Annie knows it’s so he won’t disturb either her or Mags.

Phineas turns up the volume as Caesar Flickerman greets Plutarch Heavensbee, head Gamemaker for the 75th Hunger Games. They’re standing on the street outside the Games complex, surrounded by a crowd of people bearing signs proclaiming their favorite tributes, shouting names, cheering, all very much like the night of the opening ceremonies. Some of them are even dressed in replicas of the district costumes. Annie doesn’t remember it being like that when she learned her score. It was just Mr. Flickerman on a soundstage, reading the scores from a card while the broadcast showed each tribute’s picture and district number.

“It isn’t always such a show, is it?” she asks Finnick. Maybe this is normal and it’s just one of the things she’ll never remember completely or correctly. Parts of that time, during and after her Games, are still hazy.

“No. I think it’s because this year’s a Quell.”

 _“There are some unprecedented scores this year,”_ Flickerman observes, giving strength to Finnick’s speculation.

Heavensbee follows with, _“That only makes sense, given that everything about this year’s Games is unprecedented. Whoever would have expected to see some of our most beloved victors return to the arena?”_

They banter back and forth for a couple of minutes as the faces of each tribute flow across a colossal screen set up outside the Training Center and the crowd of Capitol citizens boos or cheers each one. Even with Caesar Flickerman to guide him, Mr. Heavensbee isn’t very good at banter and Annie tunes out again, plays at weaving the fingers of one hand between Finnick’s fingers while he pushes back, trying to reverse the flow and making her smile.

Finally Flickerman bids Heavensbee goodbye, after unsuccessfully trying to wheedle hints about this year’s arena from the Gamemaker, and goes on to announce the scores by himself. Finnick gets a nine and Mags a two. Johanna Mason gets an eight. When Flickerman reaches the tributes for District 12, announcing that they each received an unprecedented twelve, Finnick whistles.

“Wow,” Martin says. “They must be pretty amazing.”

“Targets,” Mags observes.

“A two and a nine. I expected a lot lower than that,” Finnick says.

“Very … _good_ nap.” Mags elbows him in the ribs. “ _High_ er than … two.”

“Ow. I meant my nine.”

The others continue to talk about the scores, but Annie doesn’t join in. Suddenly all she can think about is that Finnick and Mags will be back in the arena in just over two days. A day of coaching for the interviews, a day of prep followed by the interviews themselves, and then… The Gamemakers may have made targets of District 12, but just as clearly, they don’t expect Mags to live long.

“Hey,” Finnick whispers. Of course he noticed her silence. “We’ll be okay, Annie.” And of course he knows why she’s silent. She looks up at him and he smiles, but it isn’t real and even Finnick can’t force the shadows to retreat. “Mags is a lot stronger than any of them give her credit for.”

Hearing her name, Mags looks over at Annie and nods once, then she places one hand on Finnick’s knee and the other on Martin’s, pushing herself up from the couch. Martin reaches over the arm of the couch to the floor for her cane and hands it to her as she straightens.

“Not … dead … yet,” Mags states with a decisive nod. “... _noches_.”

“G' night, Mags,” Finnick and Martin say in tandem.

After Mags leaves, the others don’t talk much. Phineas has the remote and just lets the program play when a history of the Hunger Games begins. It focuses on the two past Quarter Quells and speculates about what's ahead for the upcoming third, and includes clips from each of the participating tributes’ Games. Annie tries not to watch, but it’s hard. She can’t help but flinch every time a cannon sounds.

Apparently, she flinches one time too many for Finnick, because he abruptly stands, pulling her up with him. “We’re going to the roof,” he announces and then, taking her hand, leads her to the elevators. Neither Martin nor Phineas says anything.

No one else is up there when Annie and Finnick step out into the gardens. It’s even breezier than it was the night before, making the chimes’ dance more animated, their song louder. They walk out into the middle of the space, hand in hand, and Finnick pulls Annie into his arms. For a long time, neither of them makes a sound, but then Finnick starts to hum, his tune blending with the chimes. He shifts his arms so he’s holding her differently, both more intimately and yet more formally.

Humming a little louder, a half-smile playing at his lips, he spins Annie into a dance under the bright light of the moon. It’s as though nothing exists but the two of them, even if only for a little while. Annie reaches her arms up around Finnick’s shoulders, threads her fingers into his hair and pulls his head down within reach of her mouth. She kisses him and he doesn’t stop humming or swaying along with her to the simple tune as he deepens the kiss.

The sound of Haymitch Abernathy loudly clearing his throat breaks the moonlight’s spell. “I’d tell you two to get a room, but at least up here, there are fewer cameras.”

Finnick goes still and then looks at Haymitch over Annie’s head. “I blocked the cameras in our room days ago, old man.” He loosens his hold on Annie and she turns around within the circle of his arms, leaning back against his chest and resting her hands on his forearms where they cross at her stomach. Lyme and Johanna Mason stand to either side of Haymitch; all three are looking at Annie and Finnick. “What’s up?” Finnick asks, his tone wary.

“We were just thinking this might be the last time we’ll have a chance to talk freely,” Haymitch replies as he sinks down onto a concrete bench at the edge of the garden. “Martin said you were already up here.” Lyme sits beside him, but Johanna remains standing, her gaze still fixed on Annie, her expression so very neutral that it’s a statement of opinion all its own. Annie gazes calmly back.

“Why isn't he with you?”

“He was talking to LaSalle.”

Finnick's chin tickles the top of her head as he nods.

Glancing between Finnick and Johanna, Lyme says without further preamble, “Going in, don’t trust One or Two. They might be sympathetic to our cause, but all of them have their eyes on that crown. According to Silke, Cashmere and Gloss are even thinking they might both be allowed to live, given last year’s precedent.”

Johanna snorts. “That’s not going to happen a second time.”

“It shouldn't matter,” Finnick shoots back at Johanna, his voice vibrating through Annie's shoulder blades where she leans against his chest. “Not if the plan is still to get as many of us out alive as possible.” Although Annie tries to tell herself that this is all just Games strategy, nothing to do with anything more wide-reaching, she doesn’t believe it. There’s more to it than that and she shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be a part of this conversation. While she tries to decide if she should say something, the conversation continues. Annie misses most of it, deliberately blocking it out, until Finnick speaks again.

“Your girl is being stubborn, Haymitch. She likes Mags, but wants nothing to do with me.”

Haymitch takes a gold bangle from his wrist and reaches over to hand it to Finnick, tells him it’s a bracelet his district rep, Effie Trinket, gave him as a District 12 token. She wanted them all to look like a team. “If Katniss balks at alliance in the arena, make sure she sees this. She’ll know I gave it to you. I can’t guarantee it won’t send her running in the opposite direction, but she’s a smart girl. She’ll know what it means.”

Annie takes the bracelet and holds it up to look at it more closely. It’s an elegant piece of jewelry with a flame motif and it doesn’t suit Haymitch at all. She fastens it around Finnick’s wrist and then kisses his palm. Finnick half smiles and twists his hand to capture hers, not letting go.

Lyme shakes her head, a bemused smile on her face. “I just can’t get over love-‘em-and-leave-‘em Finnick Odair so wrapped up in one woman.” Annie turns to hide her face against Finnick’s chest and he laughs, but she catches a glimpse of Johanna’s face, her almost angry expression quickly masked. Johanna meets Annie’s gaze and shrugs. Annie doesn’t know what to think of it.

“So who’s in this alliance, anyway?” Johanna asks. “Four, Seven, Twelve, and…? I’d like to know who I’m not supposed to kill.”

“Cecelia’s in,” Finnick says. “So is Woof, but he may be so far gone to senility we can’t count on him for much. And Mags told me that Linna and Trayn from Six are with us.”

“Great,” Johanna snorts. “Senile octogenarians and raving drug addicts. This is going to be _so_ much fun.”

Ignoring her, Haymitch adds, “Beetee and Wiress. Chaff and Seeder.”

“Beetee is integral to the plan for the arena,” Lyme tells them. “It’s almost as important to keep him alive as it is to keep Katniss Everdeen alive.”

“Finnick,” Annie whispers, looking up at him, her discomfort with the conversation finally too much, “I don’t think I should be hearing this.” His arms tighten around her.

“We haven’t really said anything that you can’t hear, as my mentor,” he murmurs.

“You two okay there?” Haymitch asks.

“Should I be hearing this?” Annie asks of the whole group. She knows that Finnick has been involved in something for years that could only be considered treason. He spoke of it with his father on the beach what seems like a lifetime ago, but was in reality only a few days.

“Are you planning on telling anyone about it?” Johanna asks.

Annie frowns. “No, of course not.”

“Then I don’t see any reason for you not to be here.”

“It’s a moot point anyway, Annie,” Haymitch says. “We can’t work on any kind of a serious plan until we know what the arena looks like.”

Lyme nods agreement. "Beyond the basics already worked out, that will have to rest with those of you in the arena."

“Then why the hell are we up here?” Johanna asks. “I’m going to bed.” As if to make a point, she stretches and yawns hugely, then, with one last look at Finnick and Annie, heads for the door to the elevators.

“It _is_ late,” Lyme agrees and with a nod of her head to the others, she follows Johanna.

“Haymitch!” Johanna calls. “Three’s a crowd.” Annie feels Finnick smile into her hair as Haymitch rolls his eyes and pushes up from the bench.

“I guess I’m outta here. Good night.”

When they’re alone again, Annie asks, “Did you really block the cameras in our room?”

Finnick laughs. “Yes, I really did. They can still hear everything, but if they want a clear picture, they’re going to have to come in and rearrange.”

“And they haven’t done that?”

“Not unless they rearranged things since we came up here.”

“How many were there?”

“Three.” Annie shivers, wondering if his efforts were too little, too late. Still, she’s glad that there hasn’t been any clean video of them since that first night.

There isn’t much to talk about after that, or maybe there’s just too much to talk about, and so they remain silent. Annie isn’t ready to go back down to their floor, so she begins to hum, the tune as close as she can get it to the one Finnick started before the others joined them. She turns in his arms again, facing him, sliding her arms up around his shoulders as he joins his voice to hers, and they pick up where they left off, slow dancing in the moonlight.


	18. Before the Lions Take Their Share

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: non-con/dub-con

**Chapter Eighteen – Before the Lions Take Their Share**

Sunlight streaming into the room wakes Finnick with a start. It takes him a few seconds to remember that he has no reason to get out of bed. There's no more training, nothing to do but prepare for the interviews tomorrow night. There isn’t much preparation to do for that, either, as he already knows exactly what he’s going to talk about, whether Flickerman wants to or not. He can handle Flickerman.

Annie is a warm weight on his arm, her body nestled against his, her leg and arm thrown over him as if to hold him in place. She shifts, her hold on him tightening and he knows she’s awake. “There were no nightmares,” she says softly, her breath tickling his skin. He twines the fingers of his free hand with hers where both of their hands rest on his chest.

He’s glad her sleep was undisturbed, but he can’t quite say the same. “Nothing serious,” he tells her. His own dreams were dark and twisted things, but not bad enough to make note of, already faded to the point they’re nothing more than the memory of fear. She kisses his chest.

“I wish I could have kept yours away.”

He shrugs, her weight making the gesture somewhat difficult. “You kept them from staying,” he tells her, “and that’s enough.”

Annie brings their joined hands to her lips so she can kiss his knuckles. “What are we supposed to do today?”

“Prepare for tomorrow night’s interview.” He rolls suddenly so she’s half under his body, entirely trapped. He grins at her. “I feel no need to prepare for that.” She tries to pull her arm out from between their bodies, but he doesn’t let her, his grin growing wider.

“So what are _we_ going to do?” He still won’t let her free her arm, is thinking seriously about kissing her, or kissing her seriously, when she sinks her teeth into his shoulder.

“Ow!” Startled, he loses his grip on her arm and she pulls free, pushes him onto his back, straddles his hips, and it’s her turn to grin down at him.

“Well?” she challenges. “What are you going to do?” She shifts, pinning his wrists to the mattress above his head.

The sight of Annie looming over him, her hair cascading over her shoulders to tickle his face, her body hidden by one of his too-large-for-her shirts is distracting. He blinks at her owlishly. “I’m sorry. What was the question?” Fighting to keep his expression neutral, he bucks his hips upward in a half-hearted – and unsuccessful – attempt to dislodge her, which brings her breasts in line with his mouth. He takes advantage of the new perspective, raising his head to nuzzle between them and Annie gasps when he tugs with his teeth at a nipple. He ends up with nothing but a momentary mouthful of cotton when she pulls away, but then Finnick rolls them both so that she’s on her back. He’s half on top of her again when a knock sounds on their door.

“Finnick? Are you awake?” Phineas asks as he opens the door and walks right into the room. He stops abruptly. Reminded of Rafe walking in on them a few days before, and lamenting the lack of locks on the Training Center doors, Finnick shifts off of Annie and pulls the sheets up a little higher. At least Phineas’ timing is better. “Oh, I’m sorry.” The Capitol rep frowns. “Am I interrupting?”

Beside Finnick, Annie sits up, folding her legs beneath the sheets. “Good morning, Phineas,” she says primly, smiling.

Annie behind him now, Finnick props his head up on his hand. “What do you want, Phineas?”

Phineas’ eyes dart from Finnick to Annie and back again. “I just wanted to let you know that Martin and I discussed it this morning and decided that there’s no need for either you or Mags to worry about coaching for the interviews tomorrow.”

Annie strokes a finger lightly down the line of Finnick’s spine, tickling as she moves lower. Without looking, he reaches back and grabs her hand, telling Phineas, “That’s good of you. I had already decided the same thing.” And no doubt Mags told Martin she wasn’t doing it, which is probably what sparked Phineas’ decision to cancel the coaching sessions.

Phineas raises one feathered eyebrow as he watches them play. “Well, there’s fruit in the dining room, if you’d like some for breakfast.” With that, he turns and leaves, closing the door again behind him.

Fingers still wrapped around Annie’s wrist, Finnick tugs her toward him and she sprawls over his body, giggling. It’s a sound he hasn’t heard in far too long. She tries to right herself, but he holds her there. “Breakfast or…?” he asks with a leer and a waggle of eyebrows.

From her awkward position, she nips at his ribs. “Breakfast. I’m hungry.”

“Breakfast it is.” He pushes her off him, slips from their bed before she can cause him any damage, and heads into the bathroom. When he comes back out, she’s already dressed in a short-sleeved shirt and jeans and is tying the laces of her shoes.

She looks up at him. “I want to feel the sunshine, Finnick. Can we go outside?”

He steps into a pair of shorts he pulls from a drawer. “You’ve only seen the gardens at night?”

She nods. “Only by moonlight.”

“Then let’s take our breakfast up to the roof.” He pulls a shirt over his head and sits on the end of the bed to don socks and shoes. “There are enough different colors in the gardens to satisfy even you.”

They grab a large bowl from the sideboard in the dining room and fill it with apples and oranges and grapes, bananas and kiwi, and head up to the roof, but when Finnick opens the door, he doesn’t step through, instead backs out and closes it again.

“What’s wrong?” Annie asks.

“We’re not the only ones who thought of breakfast in the gardens,” he tells her and heads back to the elevators, punching the button for the ground floor. “Haymitch’s kids are there. I don’t want to disturb them.”

“What do you want to do instead?” she asks as she follows him onto the elevator. The doors close behind her and she plucks a grape from its stem, popping it into her mouth.

“We’ll go with plan B.”

“What’s plan B?”

He grins down at her. “I’ll get back to you on that.” There’s really only one other option if they want to do anything outside in the sunshine, it’s just the details of what they’re going to do when they get there that he wants to work out.

The elevator stops and the doors open. Taking Annie’s hand, Finnick leads her down the hall toward the gymnasium where he spent the last three days training for the Games. When Finnick can’t open the door to the gym, he uses the knife Annie brought for cutting fruit and jimmies the lock. He flicks on the lights and they step into the huge room.

The training stations are gone, the only evidence of the activity of the past few days a large stain in the middle of the floor, colorful and vaguely human-shaped at its center. Finnick wonders if they’ll have to replace the boards to wipe away whatever was done there, no doubt by one of his fellow tributes during his or her individual session.

Spotting what he’s looking for in a rack about twenty feet to the left of the door, Finnick crosses and grabs a ball, bounces it off the floor a couple of times to make sure it’s good. Annie watches him, puzzled, and picks another grape from the bowl she holds, tossing it up to catch it in her mouth. He heads back toward the door, bouncing the ball as he goes, whistling a drinking song his brother-in-law taught him when Finnick was ten and Rob and Shandra were newly married. He grabs Annie’s hand again on the way to the door and drags her along with him.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” she asks.

“Nope.” He bounces the ball for emphasis, but he can only hide their destination from her for so long. As they near the doors to the courtyard, a Training Center employee approaches them from the lobby.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Odair, but you can’t…” Finnick ignores the man and pushes the double doors to the courtyard open and he and Annie breeze on through. No one else tries to stop them and the man doesn’t pursue.

The morning is warm and dry and there’s no one else outside enjoying the fresh air. Still bouncing the ball, Finnick releases Annie’s hand and makes a circuit of the courtyard, checking the configuration of the enormous pots of trees that surround the area. If they work from end to end, there are two pots at least six feet in diameter straight across from each other that might work for goals….

Finnick glances at Annie where she stands near the fountain, trailing her fingers through the water. The bowl of fruit sits in the shade at her feet and a bright blue butterfly dances around the top tier of the fountain. She seems to be watching it intently, not paying Finnick any attention. He shoots the ball at her without warning, but she isn’t as distracted as he thought: she catches it as easily as the droplets of water she flings when she lifts her hand catch the sunlight. He gestures for her to throw the ball back to him, but she just smiles and shakes her head no, then runs off across the courtyard, the grown up ghost of the undamaged girl she was when they met. Finnick gives chase and he and Annie play, sometimes passing the ball, sometimes trying to keep it away from each other, and sometimes stealing kisses.

They don’t keep track of time, but the sun is higher in the sky when someone not Annie darts in and lifts the ball from Finnick’s hands.

“You should pay better attention to your surroundings, Odair!” Johanna calls, bouncing the ball at the far end of the courtyard.

Annie laughs and reaches up to pull her hair into a tail to get it off her face, out of her eyes. She uses a portion of it to secure the rest. “He _is_ easily distracted, isn’t he?” she calls to Johanna. Finnick tries to fight it, but can’t stop himself from grinning hugely at the sight; Annie’s having a very good morning, if she’s willing to sacrifice the ability to hide behind her hair if she starts feeling vulnerable.

While he watches, Johanna bounces the ball to Annie, who again catches it easily and sends it flying back. They bounce it back and forth a few times, both of them keeping an eye on Finnick. After a few bounces, he thinks he has the timing of it down and lunges for the ball, just barely missing it. Both women laugh and Annie, who has the ball, runs toward him, bouncing it on the pavement, then veering off to pass it to Jo before he has a chance to snag it from her.

The game continues for a few more minutes, the women mostly playing at keeping the ball from Finnick. He finally manages to get it away from Johanna by luring her in close to the fountain and sending a huge spray of water into her face from his cupped hand. She’s still spluttering while water drips from her hair when Brutus stops in the doorway from the Training Center. His laughter is riotous and doesn’t stop when Finnick shoots the ball hard at his head.

The big man catches it. “Nice try, Odair.” He bounces it off the bricks a few times, then sprints across the courtyard toward Johanna, but Annie flies across his path, snagging the ball away from him and heading toward Finnick with it. Suddenly, it’s a real game, although not necessarily a recognizable one, with Annie and Finnick against Johanna and Brutus.

“Goals!” Brutus shouts, standing with arms outstretched between Annie and Finnick, blocking a transfer of the ball.

“The pots at either end!” Finnick answers as he blocks Johanna from side-swiping Annie, who still has the ball. “Yours is behind you.” _No reason not to give ourselves the advantage of shooting for the closer goal_ , Finnick thinks, _even if that advantage is just a tiny one._

Even with that small advantage, the score is two to one, Brutus and Johanna, when Gloss and Cashmere join the game, Cashmere jumping in with Johanna and Brutus at Brutus’ invitation, Gloss joining Finnick and Annie. Martin and Mags arrive a couple of minutes later and Martin sets down a pair of stolen lobby chairs in a shady spot off to the side, settling Mags into one before retrieving the abandoned bowl of fruit and bringing it back to her. It’s obvious he wants to join the fray, but with the teams evenly matched, he just watches from the chair beside Mags, the two of them munching fruit.

It’s six to five, Finnick’s team, when Cecelia shows up and Martin convinces her to play. He heads for Finnick’s side of the courtyard as soon as she agrees, but Brutus calls Martin over to his team instead, wanting to keep things even, male to female.

The sun is high overhead and the day becoming truly hot when Lyme and Enobaria join in. They shuffle the teams, rearrange along district lines with Districts 1 and 2 against Districts 4, 7, and 8, and the game becomes more aggressive.

At the far end of the courtyard, near to the main doors and to what Finnick likes to think of as the enemy goal, he hears Gloss cry out in pain and the ball rolls fast across the center of the game zone, right toward Finnick. He scoops it up and turns in time to see Annie scrambling away from Gloss as Gloss rolls away from her, curling protectively around his genitals. Johanna is close to them both and breaks away from the game to run past Gloss toward Annie. Before Finnick can escape Brutus and Enobaria and do the same, Annie is kneeling face to face with Gloss, Johanna looking like she’s ready to jump between them if need be.

Playing off of Finnick’s distraction, Enobaria knocks the ball from his hands and Brutus blocks Finnick from following her and almost blocks his view of whatever’s happening with Annie. While Finnick keeps an eye on her past Brutus’ shoulder, Gloss reaches up and touches Annie’s face. Gloss says something and Annie nods. Standing slowly, Gloss shuffles toward the sidelines and drops down between Mags and Seeder. Just how long ago Seeder arrived, Finnick doesn’t know.

Enobaria passes the ball to Cashmere and Cecelia darts in under Brutus’ arm, tripping the victor from 1 and sending the ball back into play. Martin dives and rolls, comes up with the ball and passes it to Finnick, who reaches for it automatically.

Another glance their way and Finnick sees Annie and Johanna sitting on the ground to the side of the goal, nearer to the wall of the Training Center and away from the rest of the group, talking. Finnick isn’t sure what worries him more: what happened between Annie and Gloss or what she and Johanna might be talking about so seriously. For now, Annie seems to be okay, so he forces his head back into the game, sprinting over the bricks, darting past Enobaria to sink another goal and sending mulch flying.

xXx

Annie is enjoying the day, something she never thought would happen again. It reminds her of the days immediately following the announcement of the Quell, when all the victors on the island worked together in preparation for the reaping. And it reminds her, too, of the days before the arena, when she was still in school, still had friends, and the physical education classes that took up the afternoon hours, classes that were really nothing more than a thinly disguised program designed to train the children of District 4 for the Games.

She has the ball and is running for the goal, is almost there when one of the defenders tackles her. She twists, the ball flying from her fingers as she hits the pavement on her back, her tackler landing on top of her. Eyes wide, she looks up to see Gloss from District 1 grinning down at her. The way they landed, he has a hand on her breast, his legs between hers and Annie can feel the blood rushing to her face.

“Damn, you're beautiful.” He smiles and shifts, the movement suggestive. “Under different circumstances, I think I might petition Snow for a night with you.” There’s teasing in his eyes and in his voice, but all Annie can see or hear is a night she had long since forgotten, the night before her victory tour reached the Capitol.

_Naked in a strange bed, a strange man on top of her, grinding against her. “Damn, but you’re beautiful,” he breathed, all onions and alcohol. “Our president is a generous man.”_

Through the fog that had surrounded her for most of her tour, Annie panicked. Unable to push him from her, she flailed out with both arms. One hand encountered only a pillow, but the other… Screaming, she grasped the neck of the small table lamp and brought the flared base of it down hard on the man’s head.

With a cry of pain, he rolled off of her, rolled away, and Annie scrambled from the bed, hid in a corner of the room behind a chair. From the other side of the bed, the man shouted, but Annie didn’t know what he said, only that he was angry with her. So angry. And then Finnick was there, disheveled and half dressed.

“Annie!”

“Get that _creature_ out of here!” the horrible man shouted. “She tried to kill me. I’ll have her served up on a platter!”

“No!” Finnick shouted back, but his voice was calmer, softer, when he continued. “There’s no need for that, Mr. Mayor.” Finnick stepped further into the room, closer to the man. He stroked the man’s arm as Angel Banyan stopped in the doorway and assessed the situation, then hurried toward Annie’s chair. “I’ll take care of everything. It won’t happen again.” He stepped in even closer to the man, who was no longer shouting, just watching Finnick intently. “I’ll make it all up to you, I promise.” Finnick’s voice sounded different, not like his real voice at all. There was no more space between them and the man reached up a hand to curve around Finnick’s waist, pulling him in impossibly closer. Annie whimpered, blinking back tears.

“Come on, Annie,” Angel said, pulling the chair away. “Let’s get you back to your room.”

Wide eyed, Annie stared at Angel, tried to hold onto the chair, but Angel took it from her anyway. Annie pulled her hair around her shoulders, across her face; she had nothing else to hide behind. “What about Finnick?”

“Finnick is working damage control.” Angel’s voice was hard and Annie started to shake.

“That man will hurt him.”

“Finnick can take care of himself, girl, which is more than I can say for you.” Angel took Annie’s hand and led her past Finnick and the man he had called “Mr. Mayor.” They weren’t talking anymore.

In the courtyard, Annie struggles to push Gloss off her, manages to shift them both to where she can move again. She head butts him, pushes hard on his chest, manages to hit him again with a knee to the groin and then she’s free, scrambling away from him – _scrambling off the bed_ – looking for a place to hide. Gloss rolls on the pavement, writhing in pain. Someone runs past him toward Annie and then Angel, no, _Johanna_ is there, crouching beside Annie, grabbing her by the arms.

“What the hell happened?” Behind her, Gloss groans and pushes himself into a sitting position. He no longer curls protectively around himself, but he’s still wary and looks like he’s in pain, staring at Annie.

“Yeah, Annie,” he says, rubbing at his forehead over his left eye, “what the hell happened?” Johanna glares at him over her shoulder but he ignores her, his attention entirely on Annie. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just teasing.” He sounds a little shocked.

“Jackass,” Johanna accuses.

Still a little freaked, Annie stares back at Gloss, her eyes open wide. Even now, she can feel the soft, hairy body of the man from her memory crushing her, still smell the onions and the wine on his breath. She holds herself as motionless as she can while she pushes the panic away.

“Annie?” Johanna snaps her fingers in front of Annie’s eyes. “You in there?”

Blinking, Annie looks from Johanna to Gloss and back again. “I’m sorry,” she tells them, her voice faint. “I’m sorry. I…” She squeezes her eyes shut for a second and then rocks to her knees, pulls away from Johanna and crawls a little closer to Gloss. Her voice is stronger when she says, “You brought back a memory of my victory tour. It… it was something I had forgotten.” Understanding flows like a wave over his handsome face.

“And you clearly don’t want to remember it.” There is sympathy in his eyes along with unwanted memories of his own. “Damn. Your victory tour, huh? I’m sorry, Annie.” He laughs, humorless, grating. “My own was a little slice of hell.”

Nodding, Johanna mutters, “Fucker needs to die,” and Annie looks over at her sharply. Gloss doesn’t appear to have heard. When Johanna notices Annie’s shocked expression, she clarifies, “Snow, not Gloss.”

Gloss snorts and Annie knows he heard Johanna after all. “I really am sorry, Annie.” He reaches out and caresses her face with the back of his hand. “I had no idea you weren’t…” He pauses, searching for the right word. “… available. I didn’t mean to cause you any distress.” Annie believes him, but he doesn’t wait for her to say that, just pushes painfully to his feet and walks slowly away.

“I never thought Gloss was capable of being anything but a dick,” Johanna says, her gaze following him. Annie doesn’t say a word, just draws her knees up and wraps her arms around them. Turning her attention to Annie, Johanna tilts her head to one side. “And you are not at all what I expected.”

Resting her cheek on her knees, Annie asks, “What did you expect?”

“Well for one thing, I expected you to be…” She makes a circular motion with one finger next to her head.

Annie laughs. “I _am_ crazy.”

Johanna shakes her head, denying it. She leans back against the wall and stretches her legs out in front of her. “I don’t know. I expected… shy, maybe? Child-like? Someone in need of protection.” Her eyes meet Annie’s. “Now that I’ve finally met you, I feel a hell of lot better about you and Finnick.”

Annie doesn’t ask her what she means, she doesn’t really need to. “Thank you for being there for him.”

Johanna narrows her eyes. “You know we’ve slept together, right?”

“Yes, I know.”

“Doesn’t that bother you?” Her voice is neutral, but there is a challenge in her dark eyes.

“Do you mean am I jealous?” Annie shrugs. “I’ve never had him to myself.” She pauses to work through what she wants to say to this woman who is one of Finnick’s closest friends, one who, like Haymitch, keeps him from losing himself in the wilderness of the Capitol. “I’m glad you have each other. No one should be alone in this soulless place.” She closes her eyes. _I should have been here with him all along_ , she thinks.

Neither of them says anything for a time after that. Annie drifts, listening to the drone of insects and the buzz of voices, the hollow sound of the ball hitting the bricks as the game continues without her or Johanna. A splash of sunlight on her shoulder warms her skin where it touches, a stark contrast to the coolness of the shade. Johanna’s voice startles her.

“Did you kill anyone in your Games?” Annie opens her eyes to see Johanna watching her, legs no longer stretched out but instead folded in front of her, elbows resting on her knees. “I didn’t notice at the time. Your Games were the year after mine and it was my first time as a mentor.” She shrugs. “I was a little distracted.”

Annie closes her eyes again, wishes she could close off the images Johanna’s question brings. “I murdered two people. One on the second day, before Erik died and everything got… tangled. The other was at the end, when the girl from Ten tried to drown me. I drowned her instead.” She doesn’t really remember many details. Her time in the arena is just one more thing that remains hazy, at least when she’s awake. It’s always crystal clear in her nightmares.

“Good.”

Annie’s eyes fly open. “Good?”

“Not _good_ good, just…” She looks away from Annie, toward the players, watches them as she continues. “I’d hate to think I gave in to that son of a bitch over someone who never even tried to save herself.”

Feeling suddenly cold in spite of the heat of the summer day, Annie asks, “What do you mean?” She’s afraid of the answer.

“Snow told me if I didn’t cooperate, he’d hurt you.”

Annie raises her head, tense, shocked. “Me? How is that even a threat? You don’t know me!” But she knows how it was a threat and Johanna confirms it.

“No.” Johanna looks away from the game, her gaze snaring Annie’s. “But I know Finnick.”

Without conscious thought, Annie covers her ears. She locks her fingers together behind her head, hides her face between her knees and begins to rock, back and forth, back and forth. “How can any of you even look at me?” She doesn’t try to stop the tears.

“It's not your fault, Annie.” Johanna’s voice isn’t gentle, but neither is it harsh. “The blame for all of this lies squarely on the bony shoulders of our dear President Snow.”

Annie looks up. “Finnick has an arrangement with him about me, doesn’t he?” she asks before she has a chance to talk herself out of it, before she has a chance to slip once more beneath the dark waters to hide.

Johanna hesitates, but that hesitation tells Annie all she needs to know.

xXx

Finnick watches as Gloss rests for a couple of minutes on the sidelines, putting up with what looks like a tongue lashing by Mags, emphasized by a smack to the back of his head. He figures it has to do with whatever happened with Annie. All of the younger victors have experienced Mags’ displeasure at one time or another, usually deserved, and even after her stroke, none of them wants to cross her. After she smacks Gloss, she hands him a bottle of water and makes him drink.

The game continues, Annie and Johanna replaced by Watt from District 3 and Seeder, who says they all look like they’re having too much fun and she wants a little bit of that herself. All parties involved are determined to ignore the fact that in just a day and a half, most of them will be trying in earnest to kill each other, but Finnick can’t forget the sight of Annie scrambling away from Gloss and he can’t ignore the fact that neither she nor Jo rejoined the game.

When the game tide turns again and it’s Finnick and Gloss fighting over the ball, Finnick elbows Gloss in the face without a second thought. He doesn’t pull back on the blow and Gloss’ nose gushes blood. From the feel of the impact, Finnick broke it. The game pauses while Gloss, with Mags’ help, works on stopping the bleeding, but before that happens, Watt drops out, saying he prefers watching and the game goes on, down two more players, the teams still evenly matched.

Not long after that, Enobaria tackles Finnick, swinging him to the ground by grabbing a fistful of his hair. They both end up with skinned knees as they tumble and Enobaria, still hanging onto his hair, slams Finnick’s head to the pavement just a little too hard. He can’t suppress a gasp and his vision whites out, fades back in along with pain.

“Shit. Finnick?” Enobaria leans over him, sounding genuinely concerned.

He grunts, tries to roll to his side but quickly decides it’s not worth the effort. He blinks up at Enobaria. He’s a little ticked off at how hard she hit him, sure that it was because of Gloss. “I’m okay, Bari. You just knocked the wind out of me.” But he thinks maybe it’s worse than that, given that he’s seeing two of her. He closes his eyes for a couple of seconds and when he opens them again, there’s only one Enobaria. Which is good. Two of her glaring at him is a little terrifying.

He grimaces and holds a hand out for her to help him sit, feeling like someone took a sledgehammer to the back of his head. He’s pretty sure he has a concussion, something the Training Center staff aren’t equipped to fix, and that’s not a good thing with the arena looming large.

Ignoring Finnick's hand, Enobaria crouches behind him and probes through his hair with the tips of her fingers. “There isn’t any blood, Finn.” Her touch is neither gentle nor rough, just efficient. Finnick shoots her a sour look over his shoulder at her use of the nickname, one he hates as much as Enobaria hates “Bari.” The only people who use the shortened names tend to be clients who think they have a closer relationship than the ones their money paid for.

“Break time.” Brutus squats down between the two of them and hands them each a bottle of water. “You did a number on Gloss, Finnick. The little bastard is still whining about it.”

“The little bastard shouldn’t mess with my girlfriend.”

“Damn, Odair. Can’t mess with the old woman. Can’t mess with pretty Annie.” He shakes his head. “You are no fun at all.” He laughs, obviously amused by the whole thing.

Enobaria opens her water bottle and pours the contents of it over her head, then shakes her hair like a dog flinging water from its fur. “Finnick can be fun.” She grins at Finnick, showing all of her pointy teeth. “When he wants to be.”

Brutus punches Finnick in the arm to point out a group of Training Center staff pushing carts of food through the main doors to the courtyard. “Make that lunch time.” Finnick winces at the blow. From anyone else it would be a substantial hit, but from Brutus, it’s merely a playful tap. The older man takes a closer look at Finnick. “Are you injured?”

Finnick twists the top off the bottle. “Just a blow to the head. Nothing important.” Somehow pleased by that answer, Brutus grins and claps Finnick on the shoulder before standing. Finnick salutes Brutus with the bottle and then downs half the water in one swallow. As Brutus heads over to the food carts, Finnick looks at Enobaria. “You want to give me a hand up?”

“I didn’t hit you that hard, Finnick.”

“No, seriously, I think you gave me a concussion.”

She narrows her eyes at him, but then rolls smoothly to her feet and holds out her hand. When it takes him two tries to stand, even with her help, she snorts and says, “Looks like you and Gloss may have to hit the Remake Center.” She grins. “I’d pay good money to watch you two locked up in the back of the van.”

Finnick just scowls and turns his back on her. Ignoring Enobaria’s laughter, he heads for Annie, sitting on the ground next to Mags.

xXx

After lunch, Annie and Finnick slip away from the others and find a quiet space behind the planter that was their goal during the game. They both know this is probably the last chance they’ll get to spend any real time alone, away from watchful eyes and listening ears. It’s hot and far more humid than it was that morning, but it doesn’t matter to either of them because they’re together, and it’s no worse than it would be back home.

Finnick leans back against the planter, Annie sitting between his outstretched legs with his arms around her, her head resting on his chest, beneath his chin. For several minutes, they sit there without saying anything, but then Finnick breaks the silence. “What happened with Gloss this morning?”

She’d been anticipating the question. “It wasn’t anything, really.” Finnick’s arms tighten around her.

“It sure looked like something to me, Annie.” She can hear the worry in his voice, even now, hours after.

Twining her fingers with his, she lifts their joined hands to her lips, kissing the back of Finnick’s hand. “It shouldn’t have been anything,” she tells him. “I had the ball and he tackled me. The way we landed… Well, it was very…” She pauses, trying to choose her words carefully. “He told me I was beautiful and he…”

“He hit on you.”

Annie blows out a huff of breath. “Yes, I suppose so, but… The way we were lying on the ground, and he’s from District One and I…” He shifts, nuzzles her hair. He draws his knees up, a barrier of sorts between her and the world, and Annie feels like she’s suddenly in a protective cocoon made of Finnick.

“You what?” he presses.

“I remembered something that I think happened on my victory tour. There was a man you called ‘Mr. Mayor.’” Finnick says something under his breath, into her hair and she shifts, too, so that she can look at his face. “Snow sold me to him, didn’t he?”

Finnick looks miserable when he says, “Yes. You to the mayor of District One, me to his wife.” He tries to look away, but Annie won’t let him.

“So that really happened. And you… took over for me, when I couldn’t…” Tears prick at the back of her eyes. “…when I couldn’t go through with it.”

“Annie…”

“Why didn’t he ever sell me again, Finnick?” She knows this whole conversation is hard for him, but it’s hard for her, too, and she has to know. She’s not asking about any arrangement he might have made with Snow, Johanna already confirmed that for her, she just wants to understand why the president would leave her alone when he never did any of the others. The muscles in Finnick’s jaws clench, and she feels him swallow hard and take a deep breath before he answers.

“I convinced him that you were too dangerous. To the clients. That you were better when you were on Victors’ Island, where we could all keep an eye on you, make sure you were okay.” He rubs his cheek against her hair. “And I was able to talk one of his psychologists into telling him you were too unstable to leave the district. He accepted it. It’s bad for business if one of your pet victors kills someone they were supposed to… entertain.”

“Angel was so angry that night.” The tears that burned the backs of her eyes spill over, scalding as they slide down her cheeks. She traces the line of Finnick’s arm where it rests across her stomach. “I thought she was angry with me, but she wasn’t, was she? She was angry about the whole situation.” A light breeze makes its way between the buildings, bringing with it the sounds of laughter and indistinct conversation.

“I didn’t know that Snow had made arrangements with the mayor about you. We were far enough into the tour, and nothing had happened yet, that I thought maybe it would be okay. That maybe he felt some shred of decency and that he wouldn’t use someone so…” Annie feels his reluctance to say more, so she says it for him.

“Someone so broken?” Annie begins to trace a complicated pattern with her fingertip on Finnick’s arm.

“Not broken, but… damaged.” He kisses the top of her head. “They never broke you, Annie. But either way, I was wrong. I was wrong about Snow and decency, wrong about him not using you. If I’d known, I would have tried to stop it before it got as far as it did.”

“Gloss said his victory tour was a ‘slice of hell.’” Finnick shifts again. “Are you uncomfortable? We don’t have to sit like this.” He smiles into her hair.

“I’m not letting you go.” But he does, rearranging so that they’re facing each other, legs crossed, knee to knee. Even then, he won’t let go of her hands, holding them and stroking the thin skin on her wrists with his thumbs.

“The victory tours are where he starts it,” he says finally. “If the new victor is of age, anyway. Mental capacity never mattered to him before, only popularity, desirability, so I should have expected it with you.”

“I was never popular.”

“No, but you were” – he lifts her left hand, kisses her wrist – “ _are_ desirable.”

There’s silence for several minutes, both of them absorbed in their own thoughts, until Annie blurts out something that has been on her mind forever, but that she never had the courage to ask. “Do you ever wonder what our lives would be like if there were no Hunger Games? If we didn’t belong to the Capitol?” They’ve never talked about anything like that before, never talked about the future. She isn’t sure he’ll answer now, but she doesn’t want to let it go, wants to pretend for a little while that they have a future.

Finnick doesn’t respond right away, but then his hands tighten on hers. “I would’ve liked to have kids with you. Have a family of our own.”

But she doesn’t want to talk about what might have been; she wants to talk about what will be. “How many do you want us to have?”

Recognizing the switch in verb tense, Finnick gives her a wry smile. “I don’t know… Three or four? I could teach them to fish.” The wry smile turns wistful to match his voice.

“And I could teach them to swim.” _Close to shore_ , she thinks, _not out on the open sea._ Dreams can only take her so far.

“We could both teach them to mend nets.” As she had done earlier, he weaves his fingers with hers and she knows he’s thinking of that day he taught her how to mend nets. “And you could teach them how to find the beauty in the simplest things,” he continues with a hitch in his voice.

“You could sing to them.”

The light in the courtyard is growing dim with approaching night and there are no longer any sounds to indicate that the other victors are still there. Finnick raises both of Annie’s hands to his lips, kissing first one then the other, and then he begins to sing, low and soft, a song about sailing away with his love over the edge of the sea. And if his voice isn’t entirely steady, neither of them mentions it.

Annie stops fighting the tears when his song fades away. “If we somehow survive this, if we’re allowed to go home… Finnick, let’s just go. There has to be someplace they can’t touch us, where they’ll never find us. Where it could just be you and me.”

He doesn’t say anything. His eyes are as red and wet as hers and he looks wretched, but he smiles at her anyway. She leans forward to kiss him and he doesn’t let her pull away; he tastes of salt and she’s sure she tastes the same.

Finnick is the one to break the kiss. He tightens his hold on her hands and the look on his face, in his eyes, is intense. She couldn’t look away if she wanted to. “Annie, since you’re forcing me think about the possibility of having a future,” he says, his voice low and rough, “and since promises have been made, assurances given, before we run away to someplace where no one will ever find us…” He pulls her in closer, practically pulls her into his lap, close enough that he can rest his forehead against hers. “Marry me.”

Her heart stops and her eyes widen. Every breath, every beat of her pulse, every thought and emotion, everything that she is contracts to one single word.

“Okay.”

He exhales the breath he was holding on a startled laugh. “Okay?” He tugs her toward him and she lands across his legs, against his chest.

She looks up at him. “Not eloquent enough?” A moment ago, her heart stopped, but now it’s racing in her chest and she feels lighter than air. She knows the feeling will fade, that Peacekeepers will trample it beneath their boots when they come to take him to the arena, but she’s not going to think about that now. There’s nothing in her world but herself and Finnick. She reaches up and cups his face in her hands. “Yes, Finnick Odair, I’ll marry you. Right now, if I could.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “But I’ll settle for when you come home to me.”

He turns his head to kiss her palm. “In spite of those assurances, there aren’t any guarantees. I mean, I could choke on a fishbone tonight at dinner.”

She smacks him. “Stop that.”

He grins. “You could choke on a fishbone?” She knows he’s trying to lighten the mood; equally, she knows that the shadows threaten to swallow him whole, just as they do her.

“Shut up!” She laughs when she says it, smiles when she reaches up to pull him down for a kiss.

“Hey, Odair!” a man shouts from the other end of the courtyard. “You still out here?”

Finnick pulls back a little, but doesn’t let her go. “Yeah, Gloss, we’re still here.”

“They’re sending us to the Remake Center. Get your ass in here.”

“Remake Center?” Annie asks.

“I’m pretty sure I have a concussion.”

“What?” She stares at him, searches his face for signs of injury, but other than the black eye, faded to green, from a couple of days ago, there’s nothing.

“Things got a little rough after you and Jo left the game.” He grins again. “I broke Gloss’ nose. Enobaria broke my head.”

“Oh, Finnick.” She shifts so she can stroke the back of his head; his hair is warm against her hand. “They fix concussions at the Remake Center.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Odair!” Gloss sounds impatient.

“He’ll be right there,” Annie calls, but she’s not letting Finnick leave without one more kiss.


	19. You Dream but It Tastes Like Poison

**Chapter Nineteen – You Dream but It Tastes Like Poison**

“Ow!” Trapped in his chair, Finnick jerks his head away from the vicious tweezers attack and Austra looks at him reproachfully.

“This is not the first time I’ve plucked your eyebrows, Finnick.” He touches a finger to the outside of his left eyebrow where Austra had pinched as much skin as hair and is surprised to see that there’s no blood. She doesn’t usually miss like that.

“No, it’s not, but is it really necessary?”

“I want you to look your best for the interviews tonight.” He looks at her sharply, hearing in her voice something that sounds almost like pain. She looks his face over critically, moving his head from one side to the other with firm fingers at his chin, paying special attention to his eyes. With a dramatic sigh, she says, “I suppose we can skip it,” and he thinks he must have imagined the pain.

Grabbing her hand, the one with the tweezers, which he deftly removes from her fingers, he kisses the back. “Thank you, Austra, my beloved.” She’s been part of his prep team for three years, had her skin modified not quite a year ago to change colors with her mood, and ever since, he’s made it his mission in life to embarrass her.

“Oh, stop it,” she tells him, blushing purple. _It’s too bad Annie isn’t in here_ , he thinks, _she’d be fascinated._ But she’s with Mags and her prep team at the old woman’s request.

Rafe steps into the room, looking concerned. “I heard you from out in the hall, Finnick. Is there a problem?”

“No problem,” Austra says, retrieving her tweezers from Finnick. “Finnick is just being a baby.” One of the things he has always liked about Austra is her willingness to tease him right back.

“Yes, there’s a problem,” he tells Rafe. He chokes back a laugh at the look of outrage on Austra’s face. “Nothing to do with you, my love,” he reassures her, still holding her hand. She blushes again, this time bright pink shading to gold on her cheekbones and forehead. He forces himself to look away before he loses his train of thought. “Rafe, I need you to do something for me.”

Rafe frowns. “Nothing illegal…”

“Ha! No. And when have I ever asked you to do something illegal?” He reaches up to pull his still-damp hair out from behind his shoulders. “Although you’ll probably prefer doing something illegal.”

“What is it you want?” the stylist asks warily.

“I need you to cut my hair.”

“But, Finnick, your hair is gorgeous! I can’t possibly cut it,” Rafe declares. Austra adds her protests to Rafe’s, her skin fading to a pale orange-red.

“Either cut it now, or cut it after the interviews tonight.” Rafe opens his mouth again to protest, but Finnick holds up a hand, cutting him off. “If you don’t, I’ll have Mags shave it.”

Both Rafe and Austra turn white at that and she yanks her hand from Finnick’s.

"You wouldn’t,” Rafe says, shocked.

“In a heartbeat,” Finnick tells him, forcing his face into deadly serious lines.

Rafe crosses his arms over his chest. “Why?”

“Because if I’m going to die in the arena, I’d rather it not be because a stray breeze blew my hair into my eyes at the wrong moment.” Or because another tribute used it against him the way Enobaria did the afternoon before.

“You could braid it like the girl from 12…” Austra suggests, her skin looking almost normal. Finnick shakes his head.

“Won’t work. You know it’s not long enough for that.” Finnick shifts his attention back to Rafe. “Just cut it, alright? If I live, it’ll grow out.”

Austra makes a strangled sound and both men look at her. Her face is a fascinating shade of blue, mottled with purple and gray; tears well in her eyes as Finnick watches. “Austra?” he asks, reaching for her hand again.

“Oh, I just can’t stand it, Finnick! Why do you have to go back? It’s so unfair.” Finnick thinks of Star from the Remake Center. She not only took care of his badly bruised knuckles before the opening ceremonies, but also his concussion the previous night; before the parade a few days ago, she said nearly the same thing. But then he thinks of his family, of his fellow victors, both those forced back into the arena with him and the ones who will watch helplessly as their friends die. He thinks of Annie and is almost overwhelmed with fear and grief.

“Since when is anything about the Hunger Games fair?” Finnick asks, unable to keep the loathing from his voice.

Austra gasps. The tweezers clatter to the floor as she covers her mouth with her free hand. Rafe tells her to take a break and come back in twenty minutes with the whole team to put Finnick together.

“What did I say?” Finnick asks Rafe when she’s gone.

“Nothing, Finnick, it’s just that she doesn’t have any idea of the things you’ve told me. She’s unhappy enough already, with you going back in, but the Games are one of her favorite things in life. I think it hurt her feelings for you to criticize them so.”

Finnick snorts, half amused, half appalled. “So I probably shouldn’t tell her how I really feel about the Games.”

“I wouldn’t, no.”

“Fine. Whatever. I won’t. Now will you please cut my hair? Neither of us wants Mags to do it.” He doesn’t mention that it would actually be Annie wielding the scissors or that she’s cut his hair before. He just doesn’t want her to have to do it now, for this purpose.

Rafe stares at Finnick and then makes him sit up straight, begins to walk around the chair, studying rather than simply staring. After a couple of circuits, he picks up a pair of scissors and a comb and starts to cut.

“Where’s Crispin?” Finnick asks. The third member of the prep team, Crispin is the one who takes care of Finnick’s hair. Come to think of it… “And where is Marjora?”

“Oh, they’re both with Mags,” Rafe says, but doesn’t follow through with an explanation, just keeps cutting. Finnick wonders what Rafe is hiding.

Fifteen minutes later, Finnick’s hair is short enough it won’t get in his eyes nor can someone who means him harm grab it in any meaningful way. Without the help of his prep team, Rafe dresses Finnick in a silk suit embroidered with waves of shining thread and sequins, accented here and there with tiny amethysts and sapphires, aquamarines and emeralds and diamonds. In the light it shimmers like the sea, all blues and greens and purples. _Like Austra’s face when she was about to cry_ , Finnick thinks. For the first time he can remember, a shirt is part of his attire, v-necked and made of pale blue-green silk but with no other adornment. With Rafe’s permission, he wears the gold bangle Haymitch gave him and Rafe fastens a gold chain around Finnick’s neck to complement it.

Standing back to survey his work, Rafe says, “Finnick, you look amazing. The short hair works.”

“I’m glad you approve.” He’s pretty sure the sarcasm is lost on his stylist.

There’s a knock at the door and Marjora enters. “They’re ready for you, Rafael, and I should probably do Finnick’s make… up…” Her eyes widen at the sight of Finnick. “Oh, Finnick.”

He smirks as Rafe bows out, brushing past Marjora. “So am I pretty enough for you, Marjora?”

“Oh, Finnick, you’re gorgeous. But then you know that.”

“Does that mean we can skip the makeup?” He knows the answer, but it can’t hurt to ask. He did, after all, just get his way regarding both his eyebrows and hair.

Marjora shakes her head and sets her makeup case down on the dresser, motioning for him to sit. “Of course not. The lights on the stage will wash even you out.” She sets up a pair of small, portable spotlights on the dresser, angled toward Finnick, and then has him adjust his chair until she’s happy with the lighting, only then deciding that she needs him to take off the jacket. “Getting makeup on that jacket would be a tragedy.”

Finnick stands, shrugs out of the heavy jacket and lays it carefully on the end of the bed before resuming his seat. “I could give you some more appropriate examples of ‘tragedy,’ if you’d like.”

She pushes his knees apart and steps in between his legs, tucks a thin piece of cloth into the collar of his shirt to shield it from the makeup. “You know what I mean, Finnick.” She smoothes his hair away from his face and fastens another cloth over it to hold it out of the way. Then she leans in close, looking intently at his eyes. “Everything about this Quell is tragic,” she whispers, barely moving her lips. “I’m sorry.” She straightens and turns to her makeup case, selects a large pot of cream.

He wants to say something. He wants to ask her questions, find out what she means and if it’s at all what it sounded like. Obviously, she’s aware that the room is bugged, and that’s far more awareness than he has ever credited any of his prep team with. “Marjora,” he begins, but she lays a finger against his lips.

“Don’t talk, Finnick. Just let me do my job.” Her expression is troubled, but then she quickly schools it into more familiar lines. Finnick leans back into the chair, holding himself still as she works cream into his face and neck and the little bit of skin at the base of his throat, exposed by the neckline of the shirt.

“Where did Rafe go?” Rafe almost always supervises Finnick’s makeup and hair during prep. “Why’d he scurry out of here so quickly?”

“He and Rialla are working on Annie.”

“What?” Finnick tenses, digging his fingers into the arms of the chair.

“Relax, Finnick. They’re not going to hurt her,” Marjora tells him as she twists the lid onto her pot of cream.

“They don’t even _know_ what might hurt her.” His head is full of Annie curled into a ball behind a chair in this same room, terrorized and terrified. He doesn’t ever want to see her like that again, doesn’t ever want her to _experience_ that again.

With firm hands on either side if his head, Marjora forces Finnick to look at her. “Your Mags is supervising. You trust _her_ , don’t you?”

Finnick forces himself to relax. If Mags is involved, then Annie will probably be fine. If it looks like anyone is even thinking about something that might cause Annie distress, Mags’ll take her cane to them, high-profile stylist or no. And Finnick was there when Mags asked Annie to come to her room, and she wouldn’t have done that if she thought Annie might be hurt.

Fingers itching for something to do, Finnick concentrates on breathing. Annie is fine, he tells himself. Mags is there. For the next few minutes, while Marjora finishes his makeup and then makes sure his hair is just so, it becomes a mantra: _Annie is fine. Mags is there. Annie is fine. Mags is there._

When Finnick is finished with prep, an odd experience with only Marjora, there is still over an hour to wait before the interviews begin. While Marjora repacks her things, he shrugs into the heavy jacket and goes out into the common area to wait for the others and he paces. And he paces. _Maybe I should knock on Mags’ door and just tell them they’re done_ , he thinks, but then the door opens. Even though Marjora told him that Annie was with Mags and the stylists, it turns out everyone except Marjora and Finnick were in there.

The stylists, the prep teams, Martin and Mags in matching suit and gown of shimmering lavender and gray and silver like the inside of a shell, they all file out and form something almost like a receiving line to either side of the door. Finnick feels like he’s waiting for his first glimpse of his bride at their wedding; the finery in which everyone is dressed only furthers that feeling. And then Annie is there and Finnick’s heart stops in his chest and his mouth goes dry. “Oh,” he breathes, incapable of anything more eloquent.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Annie asks, her eyes shining, and she spins around once, the hem of her dress flaring out around her. If his suit reminds him of the sea, Annie’s gown embodies it. It shimmers as she moves, the lights in the room reflecting from it and absorbed by it to project purples and blues and greens. The lines of it are surprisingly simple and clearly designed with Annie in mind, not something made merely to visually represent District 4. It covers as much as it reveals and she is breathtaking. “Finnick?” Her voice falters, but Finnick can’t find any words, all he can do is stare, transfixed.

“You’ll have to wait until after the interviews to take it off her, Finnick,” Martin says dryly from behind him and for the first time in years, Finnick blushes. Everyone laughs but Annie, who stands before him straight and tall as the gown settles around her like ripples of water.

Where before he was unable, now he’s unwilling to say anything because he doesn’t think his voice will cooperate. Finnick holds out his hand to her and Annie smiles, her face framed by loose tendrils of her hair, the length of it gathered in curls to cascade down her back. She steps forward and takes Finnick’s hand, her grip tight enough to let him know that she’s nervous, too.

The elevator chimes once and the doors of the nearest one open to reveal Phineas LaSalle. “It’s almost time, people,” he says and punches a button to hold the doors open. He starts to herd them toward the elevators. “District One is already on their way to the interview venue.”

Lifting Annie’s hand, Finnick kisses the inside of her wrist and then weaves his fingers with hers. “Shall we, my love?” The endearment has never been more sincere.

xXx

When they arrive in the Training Center lobby, reporters line the loading zone. The District 2 contingent is gone and District 3 is outside, getting into the waiting limousine. Annie stops inside the lobby doors and Finnick moves to stand behind her, sliding his arms around her while they wait their turn. The others in their group file in behind and beside them.

“I thought the stage was outside the Training Center,” Annie says, thinking that may be yet another detail that she misremembers.

“It always has been, but I guess that’s something else they’re changing up for the Quell.” Finnick rests his chin on the top of her head.

“You’re not messing up my hair, are you?”

He shifts slightly and kisses the top of her head. “Only a little.” She can hear his smile; she wishes she could see it reflected in the windows, but it’s too light, both inside and out, and all she sees is the reporters and the Peacekeepers. She closes her eyes.

It’s not long before it’s their turn. As the District 4 group leaves the Training Center, Peacekeepers hold back the reporters, keeping the way clear to the waiting cars, but they still shout out Finnick’s name, manage to snap a few photographs, particularly of Finnick and, by extension, Annie. One of them even seems to realize who she is, calling her name to try to get her attention for a clear photograph.

Phineas opens the front passenger door and gets in, riding in front with the driver. A Peacekeeper opens a rear door and Finnick stands back for Annie to get in, shielding her as much as he can from the cameras while Martin helps Mags at another door into the back of the car.

Inside the car, it’s quiet and the lighting dim, almost like candlelight. Annie, Finnick, and Rialla sit facing toward the front, while Mags, Martin, and Rafe face them, their backs to Phineas and the driver. There’s a table between them, glasses and a decanter of something on the table, and Martin takes up a glass and pours. Taking a sip, he makes a face.

“Just water.”

“What did you expect?” Finnick asks.

Martin snorts. “Nothing, I suppose. Wouldn’t want a bunch of drunks on stage. That might ruin their show.”

“Might make the experience a little more tolerable.” Finnick laughs, but there’s no humor in it, and then he calls out, “Phineas!” When the rep opens the window between the front and back of the limousine, he asks, “Where are we going?”

“The interviews will be in the City Circle this year.” Finnick and Martin exchange a glance.

“What’s wrong?” Annie asks.

Finnick glances at her, but it’s Martin who answers. “That means Snow will be there.”

“Wouldn’t he be at the interviews anyway?”

“In the audience, yes,” Finnick says, “but his mansion is right there on the Circle.”

Phineas interjects, “Yes, we’re gathering in the Presidential mansion prior to the interviews. I don’t know if he plans to address you all, but he did say that he wants to open his home to you for this very special Games.”

“Oh, joy.” Finnick’s hold on Annie’s hand tightens and she feels a little sick at the thought of being in that man’s home. There’s silence for the rest of the ride to the City Circle, which doesn’t last long.

She catches a glimpse of the stage and the lighting and sound systems and, of course, the thousands of spectators that fill the Circle itself. Closer to the Presidential mansion, the walkway is lined with more reporters and photographers and Peacekeepers.

As soon as the limo doors open, the sound of the waiting crowd assaults them, making Annie feel almost short of breath. The stylists debark first followed by Martin and then Mags, but Finnick waits, looks at Annie. “Are you ready for this?”

“No, but there isn’t much I can do about it.” She leans forward for a quick kiss. “Go, I’ll be fine.”

He doesn’t release her hand as he slides across the seat to the door and then unfolds himself and steps from the car with as much dignity as he can. Still holding Annie’s hand, Finnick helps her from the car. The moment he emerges, people shout his name; when she follows, she hears someone say, “Is that Annie Cresta?” This is quickly followed by cries of “Annie! Finnick! Look this way!” as reporters vie for the chance to be the first with a photo of them for their television show or news magazine or tabloid.

Finnick leans down and whispers, “Ignore them. They’re nothing but a bunch of vultures.”

Together with their Peacekeeper escorts, Annie and Finnick walk across the red carpet to the mansion’s open doors and are bustled off to what Annie thinks must be a ballroom on the first floor of the mansion. The other victors, both tributes and mentors, who left the Training Center before them are there; there’s no sign of President Snow. Rae from District 3 waves at Annie and gestures for her to twirl and before Annie has a chance to do it on her own, Finnick tugs on her arm, putting her into a spin as he releases her. Annie just goes with it, letting the dress flare out around her. She’s laughing when she stops and Rae claps her hands, walking over to Annie and Finnick.

“Girl, you look gorgeous. That dress is fabulous!” She looks back and forth between Annie and Finnick and then glances toward a table laden with food where Mags and Martin are talking to Lyme and Silke, the female mentor for District 1. “Your stylists went all out for the Quell, didn’t they?”

“Yeah,” Finnick says, “I suppose they did.”

“I wonder why?” She looks down at her own dress, which is a soft yellow that doesn’t really go with the coffee of her skin. It’s pretty, but there’s nothing special about it. Looking around the room, Annie sees that most of the mentors are dressed well, but not nearly as well as the tributes. She and Martin are the exceptions.

“Guilt,” she says. Both Finnick and Rae look at her in question, but Annie is sure of it. “They feel guilty and so they’ve tried to make up for it with this.” She holds out her hands, encompassing both her gown and Finnick’s suit.

“What makes you say that?” Finnick asks.

She shrugs. “Just the way Rafe acted and some things he said. He’s the one who designed my dress.”

Finnick grins. “You scare the hell out of him, you know.”

“I do? Why?” Annie frowns.

“You can be pretty intense when you don’t like someone, love.” He laughs, but doesn’t have a chance to say anything else as a man in a dark suit follows the District 8 victors into the ballroom – Annie missed the entrances of Districts 6 and 7 – and comes to a stop in the center of the ballroom floor.

“Tributes and mentors,” he begins, but says nothing more until the noise of conversation dies out. “President Snow sends his regrets that he is unable to greet you this evening, but he has been unavoidably detained. He asks that you please enjoy yourselves in his home prior to the interviews and wishes you all a happy Hunger Games.”

A small object flies at the man’s head, hitting him just above his right eye. It drops to the floor and rolls toward Annie, Finnick, and Rae, stopping at Annie’s feet. A grape. Beside her, Finnick can barely contain his laughter. Directly across from them, Johanna, stunning in red satin, tosses a grape in the air and catches it in her mouth. Seeing Annie watching her, Johanna sketches a salute with the bunch of grapes in her hand.

The only sign of the man’s displeasure is the flare of his nostrils and the flush of bright color in his cheeks. He looks around at the men and women in the room and, as the group from District 9 enters through one door, he straightens his suit jacket and exits through another.

“Oh, there’s Cecelia.” Rae touches Finnick lightly on the arm and he leans down to meet her as she kisses him on the cheek. “Happy Hunger Games, Finnick, and may the odds be in all our favor.”

“Take care, Rae.”

“Annie, child, I will see you in the morning.” She kisses Annie on the forehead and hurries over to a woman in a black sheath dress that shimmers as she moves.

Rather than moving on to talk to any of the others in the room, Finnick pulls Annie into his arms. “Don’t you want to talk to Johanna or…?” Annie asks.

He shakes his head. “I’ll talk to Johanna tomorrow. I don’t want waste any of the time I have left with you.” His voice drops to a whisper at the end. Annie slips her arms inside his suit jacket, her hands gliding over the warm silk of his shirt, meeting at the small of his back. She rests her head against his chest.

“Could you two be any more nauseating?”

“Go away, Gloss.”

“How’s your head, Finn?”

“Peachy. How’s your nose, Glossie?” Annie smiles; there’s no heat in their sniping. From the corner of her eye, she sees the victors from District 10 arrive. It occurs to her that she hasn’t seen any stylists, only victors. And she notices there are Peacekeepers stationed at all four entrances to the room.

“Better than ever, Finnie.” Gloss salutes Finnick with his drink. “Thanks for asking.”

“I could fix that for you.”

Any reply Gloss might make is interrupted by a woman dressed in a white suit. “Miss Cresta, it’s time for the mentors to take their seats.” Finnick’s arms tighten around Annie even as she lifts her head. She sees that most of the other mentors are gathered by a door across the room from the one through which they all entered. “Miss Cresta…”

And then Martin is there, offering Annie his arm. She looks up at Finnick, who still hasn’t loosened his hold on her. He ducks his head toward hers and kisses her mouth, lingering for a moment before he lets her go. “I’ll see you in a little while.” She nods and lays her hand on Martin’s arm. She can feel Finnick watching her as Martin leads her away.

District 11 enters as the woman in white leads the mentors through the door and down a marble and wood hallway and through a set of double doors out into the City Circle and to rows of seating set aside for each district. Annie and Martin take their seats beside Rafe and Rialla.

Caesar Flickerman, seated at one end of the stage, is all lavender this year, skin, hair, makeup; Annie shudders at the sight of him, remembering how he touched her so familiarly during her own interview five years before.

Martin leans in and whispers, “Pretty creepy, isn’t he?” Annie nods, glad to have Martin here.

They sit there for several minutes before the buzz of conversation from the crowds dies back as the tributes file in and take their seats, some, like Finnick, playing up to the crowd to wild cheers, others ignoring everyone.

xXx

Finnick helps Mags into her seat and sets her cane on the floor between their chairs, then settles into the chair between her and Cara from District 5. Once seated, he can’t stop fidgeting. He wishes he’d brought some rope, but didn’t think about it. His eyes drift over the audience, but there’s nothing and no one of interest out there, so he shifts his attention to the rows of seating in front of the stage, past where Flickerman stands and calls Cashmere forward. Annie is easy for him to spot and once he finds her, he doesn't want to look away.

“ _Basta_ , hijo,” Mags says, nudging Finnick’s bouncing leg.

He goes still and looks sharply at Mags, an almost reflexive fear rising inside him. “ _You_ stop. You know that’s forbidden.” The government of Panem had decades ago declared speaking any language other than that of the Capitol an offense punishable by death, just one more thing taken from the people of the districts to destroy unity and district identity.

Mags laughs and stares out over the audience. “Soy… una _muerta_ caminando.” It’s the clearest thing she’s said in days and it terrifies him, as much for the sentiment as for the language in which she speaks it, the language of her childhood, banned by the government during the Dark Days.

“You’re not dead, Mags.” Cara glances at Finnick and frowns before returning her attention to the nearest monitor where Flickerman is saying something comforting to Cashmere, his hand on her knee. Finnick doesn’t bother to read the transcript crawling along the bottom of the screen.

“Pronto…” Mags says, not looking away from the audience. Finnick isn’t sure she even sees them. He clenches his hands into fists and forces himself to breathe in, exhale. “Soy… _rebelde_ ,” she states. “Yo poseo…”

He stares at her. “Mags, _please_.” Mags has always had a reckless streak, but she hasn’t indulged it much since her stroke. Apparently, she’s decided to exercise it tonight and Finnick thinks it might just kill him before the arena ever has a chance. She reaches out and strokes his cheek. Further up the line, Gloss stands and straightens his tunic, joining hands briefly with his sister as they pass.

“Relax, boy.” Mags strokes Finnick’s newly shortened hair once before dropping her hand back into her lap and turning her face back toward the audience. There is both love and a deep, dark anger in her eyes. She doesn’t say anything more in either language, but Finnick doesn’t relax. He can’t. He’s too afraid of what she’s going to do in her interview, something that hadn’t occurred to him might be a thing of concern. Straightening in his chair, he watches the screen, but doesn’t really see it.

He was maybe seven years old when Mags started teaching him _el Castellano_ , too young to know that they were breaking the law, technically committing treason. The irony of it is almost painful. He laughs and both Mags and Cara look over at him while a part of his brain registers Enobaria taking her place with Flickerman.

The tribute from 2 feigns taking a bite out of Flickerman’s hair and the audience laughs. Looking over the people in the crowd, Finnick stops at Annie, surrounded by the district stylists and her fellow mentors. None of the victors are laughing. Like him, they’re all aware that it’s just as likely Enobaria wasn’t joking, that she feinted toward his head, not his hair. Finnick wouldn’t put it past her.

He glances at Mags again. By the time he was first reaped, he was pretty fluent in Castellan, practicing with her after school or when she came by the house to watch over him while his parents and siblings were working. She slipped into it sometimes, usually when she was very tired or emotional, but almost never when there was anyone around but him. Since her stroke, most people just assume it’s a symptom of that, nothing more than garbled speech, but here in the Capitol…

Brutus takes the stage, spouts some pro-Games rhetoric. Although, coming from Brutus, it’s probably completely sincere. _At least Enobaria has a sense of humor_ , Finnick thinks. A scary sense of humor. Finnick’s attention drifts again to Annie and he sees that she’s watching him. When she realizes he’s aware of her, she smiles and mouths “I love you.” He smiles back at her and, knowing that anyone who sees it will make certain assumptions that have nothing to do with Annie, Finnick blows her a kiss. Somewhere, he’s sure a camera picks it up.

Before he even thinks about what he’s saying, he whispers to Mags, “I asked her to marry me.” She doesn’t respond and he turns his head to look at her. “Was that wrong? It was a stupid thing to do, wasn’t it?” He digs his fingers into his knee. “It’ll just hurt her in the long run.” He blinks back sudden tears as Brutus stands and shakes Flickerman’s hand, then turns and walks back to his seat between Enobaria and Wiress, who stands and starts toward Flickerman. A few steps from her chair, Wiress turns around to look at Beetee for reassurance, walking backwards until he nods and she turns again.

Six minutes of tribute time, maybe a minute of transition between, and then it will be Finnick’s turn. He knows what he wants to do and it doesn’t involve actually allowing Flickerman to ask him any questions, but now, thinking about the future he and Annie foolishly let themselves dream of, he’s not sure he’ll even be able to speak.

“I’m a fucking moron.”

Mags reaches across the space between them and pries his fingers from his knee. Holding Finnick’s hand, she repeats, “Basta, hijo.” She squeezes. “Not… stupid. Gave… _hope_.”

“There is no hope.” She gives his hand a shake.

“ _Hush_ , boy.” To her other side, Beetee stands, catches Wiress’ hand and pulls her back to her chair, not letting her wander off the stage. He adjusts his glasses and heads to his interview. Mags shakes Finnick’s hand again. “Gave _both_ … some… thing to _live_ for.” Finnick closes his eyes and squeezes Mags’ hand, not letting go until she pulls it from his, ready to join Flickerman.

xXx

Sitting between Martin and Rialla, Annie doesn’t pay much attention to the interviews. Instead, she alternates between turning around in her seat to watch the people in the audience and watching the tributes on the large screen above the stage, although she doesn’t have to watch the screen since she’s close enough to the stage to see the actual beads of sweat on Mr. Flickerman’s face. Someone a few rows behind makes a comment and Annie turns that way. The audience reactions to what the tributes say is just as interesting to Annie as the words spoken on stage.

When Cashmere talks to Flickerman, the crowd seems to hang on her every word. When she starts to cry and he reaches out to comfort her, Annie hears sniffles from behind and looks over her shoulder to see several people wiping their eyes. It only gets worse when Gloss takes the stage; Annie hears actual sobs from various places in the crowd.

Things lighten up a little with Enobaria when she unexpectedly turns her shark grin on Flickerman and then snaps her teeth. He jumps and gasps and the audience gasps right along with him, only to follow his lead again a moment later when he laughs. Enobaria just smiles, no longer showing her teeth. She gave Finnick a concussion the day before and Annie thinks she may be a little unhinged.

Scanning the stage, Annie easily finds Finnick. It wouldn’t be difficult for her even if he didn’t stand out in a crowd. When the interviews began, he slouched a little in his chair, but now he’s sitting up straight and she thinks Mags might have said something to him about it; she saw them talking earlier. Annie smiles when she realizes that he’s looking back at her. “I love you,” she whispers and he gives her an answering smile, blowing a kiss in her direction before he leans in and says something to Mags.

“I think you were supposed to catch that,” Martin whispers in her ear and Annie blushes.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” she tells him.

“All of Panem saw that, Annie.” He winks at her and returns his attention to the stage. Annie looks around, but no one in the audience appears to be paying her any attention and she decides Martin was just teasing. On stage, Finnick and Mags are still talking and it looks serious. Mags takes Finnick’s hand and shakes it, says something to him and then leans back in her chair, still holding his hand even when the man from District 3 returns to his seat.

“Ladies and gentleman, you know her best as Mags, the one person in all Panem who can keep our beloved victors in line. Let’s hear it for Margreta Moreno of District 4!” Flickerman stands and raises his arms high, encouraging the audience to applaud as Mags pushes to her feet, dragging her hand from Finnick’s. That seems to wake him from whatever dream state he was in. With a glance up at Mags, Finnick reaches down between their chairs to retrieve her cane, but when he starts to stand to walk her to the interview area, she takes the cane and pats him on the cheek, says something to him, clearly refusing his help. “Isn’t that just wonderful?” Flickerman asks. “After all these years, Finnick is still devoted to his former mentor.”

The audience applauds loudly and there are a few whistles. The citizens of the Capitol are enthusiastic; Annie just feels nauseous. Martin touches Annie’s hand lightly where it rests on the chair arm between their seats. “You okay?” he asks. “You look a little green around the gills.”

“I’m fine,” she tells him, but more words follow without her meaning to say them out loud. “Can’t these people understand what this means for them? They’re all applauding like this is some kind of celebration.”

“No, Annie, I don’t think they _can_ understand it.”

It takes Mags almost a full minute to walk the short distance to take her place for the interview. Annie knows the old woman can walk faster than that. When she looks over at Martin, she sees that he’s thinking the same thing. “She’s playing with Mr. Flickerman, isn’t she?”

“Him, the audience, fire.” Martin smiles as he says it and it’s not a nice smile. Annie looks back up to the stage.

“My dear Mags,” Flickerman says as he reaches for Mags’ hand and helps her to her seat. It takes her a moment to get settled. Before she’s done, he turns toward the audience and lifts his hand as a barrier between him and Mags and says, “The clock is ticking…”

She arches one eyebrow at him and pokes him with her cane before laying it on the floor at her feet. He roars with laughter and the audience with him.

Taking his seat beside her, he says, smiling, “I suppose I deserved that.” Annie thinks he smiles far too much.

Mags nods once. “Did.”

“That is a beautiful gown, Mags. It reminds me of your district on a stormy winter day.” Mags just looks at him and says nothing. His smile falters while Annie’s grows. He swallows and leans forward in his seat, looking suddenly serious. “Tell me, Mags, how do you feel about going back into the arena with the boy you mentored to victory ten years ago?”

Speaking slowly, Mags enunciates very carefully. “I feel sick. He is a good man. Doesn’t deserve this.” She cocks her head to the side and spears Flickerman with her dark eyes. “But can’t volunteer twice.”

Flickerman nods. “True. That’s very true. And that brings us to a question I think everyone here is interested in learning the answer to. What went through your head when Annie Cresta’s name was called during the reaping? What made you volunteer to take her place?”

Mags looks out toward the audience and finds Annie. Her expression softens. “I’m old. Annie is… young. Not yet… _lived_.” She leans forward, still watching Annie. “Deserves… _to live_.”

Flickerman looks out over the audience, too, and on the screen over the stage, Annie sees herself, her fingers digging into Martin’s arm. She looks over at him and loosens her grip, but he just shifts so he can take her hand in his. “Indeed she does, Mags. Indeed she does.” He nods in Annie’s general direction, but she doesn’t think he sees her.

“They _all_ deserve to _live_.” Mags is looking past Flickerman to the long line of tributes waiting on the stage. Flickerman hesitates for a beat, blinks.

“Yes. Yes, we all feel very strongly about the terms of this Quarter Quell, but the terms were set a long time ago.”

Mags says something that Annie doesn’t understand, that no one understands. But then the cameras move to Finnick, sitting stiff in his chair, his face pale under the makeup, and Annie knows that he understood. Mags’ words are clear when she says, “I remember. _Before_ the Games.” She says something else, but the sound cuts out. Throughout the audience, people ask each other if they understood her, ask what she said.

“Mags, tell me—”

She cuts him off. “This is _wrong_.” Flickerman starts to say something else, to ask a question, but Mags leans over and picks up her cane, stands. “The Games are not _glory_. They are… _death_ sentence.” And with that, she walks back to her chair, ignoring the chaos behind her. Ignoring, too, the Peacekeeper that moves in to escort her.

On stage, Finnick stands and waits for Mags, deliberately stepping between Mags and her Peacekeeper escort and kissing her on the forehead before he moves toward Flickerman. When he arrives, Flickerman takes his hand, just as he did the others who came before, but he doesn’t let go right away; Finnick has to pull his hand free, but Annie thinks she might be the only one who notices. The two men chat for half a minute and then Finnick asks if it would be alright with Flickerman if he recites a poem to his one true love.

Flickerman says, “Oh, please do, Finnick. Is this something you wrote yourself?”

“As a matter of fact, Caesar, it is.”

“And is she – or _he_ – here in the audience?”

“Ah, Caesar, you know I don’t kiss and tell.” The audience goes wild at that, laughing and shouting, “We love you, Finnick!” and “You can kiss me anytime, Finnick!” When it dies down, Finnick begins. The cadence of his voice, the words themselves, lyrical and flowing one into the other like water, lend themselves more to song than to the spoken word, and after a time, his words slip into melody. Annie sees the glint of harsh amusement in Finnick’s eyes at all the sighs and choking sobs from the audience. Time and again, Finnick finds Annie only to force himself to look away, until finally he closes his eyes and keeps them closed until he is finished.

When the audience quiets, he stands and bows to them with a flourish, then returns to his seat between Mags and the female tribute from District 5, who Flickerman calls Cara. The interviews continue, but none of them make any impression on Annie. For the rest of the evening, she can barely look away from Finnick.

When Katniss Everdeen from District 12 stands up in a wedding dress, the one the citizens of the Capitol all voted on, there’s not a dry eye in the house. Annie doesn’t really hear Flickerman’s questions or Katniss’ answers, but then Katniss spins and her dress flares out and begins to burn…. When it’s over and Katniss’ white wedding dress is transformed into something as black as the coal her district is known for, Flickerman asks Cinna to stand up and take a bow for his amazing work.

Annie turns in her seat toward the people from 12 and sees her friend, dressed as simply as ever, stand and wave. When she turns back toward the stage, Finnick is looking out over the crowd toward the District 12 contingent.

Then Peeta from 12, dressed in a suit that matches Katniss’ wedding dress, at least before the dress burned away, drops the bombshell on them all that he and Katniss are already married and that she’s pregnant. The crowd is in chaos and the anthem blares, announcing the end of the program.

The victors-turned-tributes all stand and Annie watches as Finnick takes Mags’ hand and she takes the hand of the man from District 3. Finnick reaches out to Cara from District 5 and she, in turn, takes her district partner’s hand and it continues all along the line until all the tributes for the 75th Hunger Games stand in an unbroken chain.

Beside her, Martin says, “I can’t believe they haven’t cut the transmission yet.” There’s a fierce excitement in his voice. Annie looks away from Finnick to the view screen, which shows the line of victors holding hands in an unprecedented show of unity.

It takes the people in the broadcast control room some time to figure out what’s happening and to start blacking out the broadcast, but as Finnick raises his and Mags’ hands high, accented by the sparkly gold bangle on his wrist, Annie knows it’s too late. The people in the districts, required to watch, have seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding the use of Spanish in this chapter: Yes, I know it's not perfect. There's been language drift from the Spanish we know, and Mags doesn't always push out all of her words after her stroke. But, in case it isn't as clear to you all as it is to me and Mags, this is what she says:
> 
> _Stop, child._
> 
> _I am a walking dead woman._
> 
> _Soon..._
> 
> _I am a rebel. I own that._


	20. Waiting For the Fall

**Chapter Twenty – Waiting For the Fall**

The lights go out. Something almost like silence falls, if only for a few seconds, the only sounds the hum of the speakers and amplifiers that surround the City Circle. And then, issuing forth from those same speakers, an authoritative voice intones, “Citizens of Panem, return to your homes.” The City Circle explodes into bright lights and chaos and the order to disperse continues, a recorded loop. A nearly solid wall of Peacekeepers surrounds the interview venue; more Peacekeepers bearing riot sticks all but storm the stage itself, herding the tributes to the ground below.

Looking out over the front edge of the stage, Finnick searches the throng for a glimpse of Annie, but it’s nothing more than a swirling mass of humanity on the ground. A pair of Peacekeepers push him away from the edge as though he might jump into the turmoil below, forcing him back toward the disorderly line waiting their turn to take the stairs center-stage. There is a similar line at the far end – Districts 12, 11, 10…

He sees Mags stumble and catch herself on a Peacekeeper’s arm and Finnick runs toward her, steadies her with an arm around her waist. “Where’s your cane?” She shakes her head and he turns, intending to go back for it, but receives a riot stick in the gut.

“Keep moving.”

“She needs her cane,” Finnick insists, but he only gets another shove.

“I said keep moving.” Past Linna and Blight, who are now between Finnick and Mags following his brief argument with the Peacekeeper, Mags’ gray-white head disappears beneath the edge of the stage. Finnick follows orders; he’ll carry her, if he has to.

By the time Finnick reaches the stairs, Mags is moving slowly across the pavement below toward a waiting vehicle – not one of the limousines they came in. A Peacekeeper tries to hurry her and she stumbles again, crying out as she falls, and Finnick is about to bypass the stairs and jump to her aid when Brutus crouches beside Mags, ignoring their impatient guards as they try to force him to move. Instead of jumping and risking a sprain or worse, Finnick pushes past Blight – “Sorry!” – taking the steps three at a time. Brutus is helping Mags to her feet when Finnick arrives.

Brutus glares at the nearest Peacekeepers. “What purpose is there in treating an old woman so poorly?”

“Keep moving!” A pair of Peacekeepers block entry to the van and Finnick catches a glimpse of Cecelia before the doors shut. The van pulls out to join the solid line of traffic around the City Circle.

Peacekeepers herd the remaining tributes toward the presidential mansion. Mags stumbles again after only a couple of steps – “My knee” – and Finnick sweeps her up into his arms, her weight barely noticeable.

Rather than taking them back to the ballroom where they waited before, the Peacekeepers escort them deeper into the mansion. The tributes, under heavy guard, are ushered into the waiting room of the president’s working office – Finnick has been there many times over the years. Some standing, some sitting, they wait. No one, tribute or Peacekeeper, says a word.

After several silent, tense minutes, they’re finally ushered into the inner office and lined up in front of President Snow, seated behind his desk and looking haggard and disheveled. He doesn’t offer for any of them to sit, just studies them expressionlessly. The only indication of his mood is a slight tic at his left eye. The president is as angry as Finnick has ever seen him.

Snow rises and rounds the desk, walks along the line of tributes. He dismisses those tributes from Districts 2, 5, and 6, as well as Blight and Wiress, ordering the Peacekeepers to take them back to the Training Center. Glancing at those who remain – Mags, Johanna, Beetee, Gloss, Cashmere – most of whom are either Finnick’s fellow conspirators or gave a performance that painted the Quarter Quell or President Snow in a bad light, all Finnick can think is, _Oh, fuck. He knows._

When Snow addresses the ranking Peacekeeper – “Where are the rest of them?” – he’s sure of it.

“I’m sorry, Mr. President, but the others were sent back to the Training Center before we received word that you wanted them brought here.” Her voice is calm and professional, but her hands clench tightly behind her back, betraying her nervousness. “I gave the order for them to turn around, but traffic is at a standstill right now.”

Snow considers that for a moment. “You may rescind that order, Major. Have them continue to the Training Center.” He turns toward Finnick. “Take Mr. Odair back to the Training Center, as well.”

Finnick can breathe again. _Not bringing the tributes from Eleven and Twelve… Maybe this is something else entirely._ Forcing himself to a steadiness that is nothing but illusion, he looks Snow in the eye and says, “I’m not leaving Mags. Your Peacekeepers wouldn’t let her have her cane and she can’t walk without it. I had to carry her.” Snow shrugs.

“Then stay.” He laughs humorlessly. “You’re just as guilty as the others of causing a near riot with that _love_ poem of yours.”

The president again walks the much shorter line of tributes, hands clasped behind his back. He stops in front of Johanna. “’Deep bond of _love_ between the Capitol and her victors?’” Johanna stares right back at him and somehow manages not to smirk. With a shake of his head, Snow paces the line again, this time stopping between Cashmere and Gloss. “And you.” He looks from sister to brother and back again. “I am not surprised at Finnick and Johanna, but the two of you know better.”

Beetee pushes his glasses up, settling them more comfortably on the bridge of his nose; the movement draws Snow’s attention. “And who are you, Mr. Beetee, to question the legality of this Quarter Quell? I was not aware that you had any legal training.” Beetee looks like he’s about to answer that, but Snow holds up a hand, stopping him. “Be that as it may, rest assured that the terms of the Quell are every bit as legitimate and unassailable as the Games themselves.”

Mags lets loose a hoot of laughter and Snow’s ire shifts from Beetee to her. Finnick’s heart sinks like a stone in his chest. “Not con… vinced _Games_ … legal.”

“Dammit, Mags,” Finnick whispers. Still watching Snow, a bird with her eyes glued to the snake that stalks her, Mags reaches back for Finnick’s hand, doesn’t let go when he lets her catch it. To anyone else, it probably looks like she’s seeking reassurance and support from him, but the reality is that she’s offering it.

Snow steps over to Mags, stops in front of her. “I should simply have you executed for treason.” He glances at Finnick. “Miss Cresta is, after all, the tribute actually reaped for District Four.” Finnick knows he’s crushing Mags’ hand, but he can’t force his muscles to loosen.

And then Snow backs away, returns to his desk and leans on the edge of it. He tells them, “Whatever you are all playing at, it will not work. In less than…” he checks his watch “…twelve hours, you will be in the arena.” He looks them over one more time and then, without taking his eyes off his victors, orders the Peacekeepers to take them back to the Training Center. An armed guard escorts each of them from the office. Finnick doesn’t know how he manages to lift Mags again, given the rubber that his legs have turned to, but lift her he does, carrying her easily through the halls of the mansion and to the waiting transport. The president’s parting words – “Happy Hunger Games to you all” – ring in his ears.

The ride back to the Training Center is twice as long as it should be, but even so it only takes a few minutes. It’s just the six of them. Finnick is sandwiched between Mags and Johanna on one side of the van, his legs stretched out in front of him. Gloss is on the other side with his arm around Cashmere, her head resting on his shoulder as he plays with her hair, and Beetee sits next to them, his head back against the wall and his eyes closed. Both benches are flanked by Peacekeepers on either end, keeping watch over Snow’s wayward tributes. There is no conversation.

_“I should simply have you executed for treason. Miss Cresta is, after all, the tribute actually reaped for District Four.”_

Snow’s threats to both Mags and Annie echo endlessly in Finnick’s brain. The thought of Mags dead, of Annie in the arena makes every nightmare he has ever had seem sweet in comparison. Finnick doesn’t feel much like talking. Throwing up, maybe, but not talking.

Johanna nudges his shoulder. “He’s not going to do it, you know. He won’t put your Annie in the arena any more than he’s going to hurt your batshit old mentor.”

He glances over at her. “Am I that obvious?” he asks as Mags reaches a hand behind his head and flicks Johanna in the ear.

“Ow!”

“Behave,” his batshit old mentor tells Johanna. Gloss snickers while Cashmere continues tracing a pattern on Gloss’ thigh, ignoring everyone else. Beetee gives no indication that he heard anything at all; Finnick thinks he may have fallen asleep. The Peacekeepers remain stone faced.

There are a few more minutes of relative silence and then the van stops. A moment later a Peacekeeper opens the rear doors. The two guards nearest the doors jump down and one of them motions for the tributes to follow. Finnick precedes Mags out of the van and turns, presenting his shoulders to her. “Hop on, old woman.”

“Crazy child,” Mags laughs and then lets Johanna help her settle onto Finnick’s back, arms around his neck, legs to either side of his waist with his arms locked beneath. Once they’re all off the van, Peacekeepers escort them into the Training Center, but they don’t take them any further than the lobby, apparently trusting them to return to their floors on their own. It’s still an hour or so before midnight, but the lobby is deserted.

They stare at each other in silence for several seconds until Beetee finally says, “I should go check on Wiress.” He glances at Johanna, then to Finnick and Mags, all of them his allies come morning. “And we should all try to get some sleep.”

Mags taps Finnick on the chest. “Put… _down_ , boy.” He loosens his hold on her legs and she slides down his back to the floor. She holds her hand out to Beetee and rather than make her come to him, Beetee takes two hurried steps toward Mags. When he’s close enough, she pulls him into a hug. “You… take _care_ , Volts.”

“It’s been a pleasure, Margreta, although I do wish you hadn’t saddled me with that nickname.” He smiles at her when he says it. Beetee has been known as “Volts” for as long as Finnick can remember, but he never knew it was Mags who gave him the name.

“Meant… with _love_.” Finnick blinks back sudden tears. It hurts to know that they’re saying their final goodbyes, that it’s clear neither of them expects to see the other again, or that, if they do, there won’t be any room for words.

“I know, Margreta.” Blinking rapidly, Beetee reaches up past Mags’ head and removes his glasses, wiping at his eyes.

Finnick is just close enough to hear it when Mags whispers, “Don’t. You. _Fail_.” She thumps Beetee on the back once and then lets him go, takes an unsteady step toward one of the low chairs nearby, favoring her right knee. When Finnick moves toward her, she waves him away and drops heavily into the chair.

Beetee polishes his lenses on the tail of his dress shirt and then puts the glasses back on. “I’ll do my best.” Without saying anything to anyone else, Beetee backs away, coming to a stop when his knees bump against the edge of a table. With a glance toward Finnick and Johanna, he nods and heads for the elevators.

“We should probably hit the sack, too.” Johanna shoulder bumps Finnick. “Join me?” She winks, but he knows she’s only half joking, just as they both know that when they were together a few weeks ago in her apartment, it was the last time, no matter what happens in the arena.

“I’m sorry, Jo.”

She pats his cheek. “Figured it was worth a shot. Say hi to Annie for me.” She slips away from him and hunkers down next to Mags, her forearms crossed on the arm of the chair and her chin resting on her arms as they talk.

With a dismissive glance at Johanna, Cashmere says, “Well, Finnick, I guess this is goodbye.”

“I guess it is.” She pulls away from her brother and steps in closer to Finnick, moves to kiss him on the cheek, but he turns his head, kisses her mouth instead.

She smiles. “Thank you for yesterday. It was a good day.”

He gives her a lopsided grin. “Believe me when I say I wish we could do it again.”

When Cashmere steps away from Finnick, returns to Gloss’ side, Finnick can’t help but remember a night, almost five years gone, that the three of them spent together. Snow found out about part of it – there was no way he could avoid it, once the tabloids got hold of it – but he never knew all of it.

Finnick had been nineteen, just a few weeks before he met Annie and Johanna. It was during his wild, fuck-you-Snow days when he slept with anyone who caught his eye, giving them for free what Snow charged an exorbitant price for. He was at The Abyss, drunk or high or both, he really couldn’t remember, when Gloss walked in.

They’d been together before, but never on their own terms, and as polluted as Finnick’s bloodstream was that night, it seemed like a good idea to cross the dance floor and crowd Gloss against the bar, hearkening back to their first time together, when the roles were reversed. He hadn’t said a word of greeting, just kissed him, open-mouthed and full of heat and Gloss had reciprocated. They wound up half naked on the dance floor a few minutes later and gave the crowd a damned good show, giving rise to speculation throughout the Capitol that they were a couple, after it came out that Finnick went home with Gloss that night. The events of the evening were tabloid fodder for weeks and made The Abyss _the_ place to visit for a night of Capitol clubbing.

What hadn’t made it into the tabloids, though, was that Cashmere was waiting for Gloss in his apartment while he and Finnick were at The Abyss and that when he and Gloss got home, falling in through the door, Cash had stepped in and joined them without missing a beat.

That had been one hell of a night. None of them had gotten any sleep. It wasn’t repeated, but Finnick had never regretted it, even when Snow laid down the law to him two days later: No more drugs, no more casual sex, no more complaints from paying clients who learned of Finnick’s exploits in the tabloids, or did Finnick want young Rhys to become an orphan?

Gloss says something to Cashmere and then steps away from her, pulls Finnick into a quick, hard embrace. “Finnick, man, I wish things could have been different.” Finnick returns the embrace.

“So do I, Gloss. So do I.” He starts to pull away, but Gloss holds on.

“I spoke to Silke,” Gloss whispers into Finnick’s ear. He loosens his hold on Finnick then, shifts so he can look him in the eye. “She’ll look out for Annie.” Finnick stares at Gloss. He has to hold his breath for a few seconds to stop any embarrassing noises from escaping, and part of him can’t help but wonder if this is a tactic to psych out the enemy before a battle. There’s no chance Gloss isn’t aware of the effect his words have on Finnick, and he almost regrets saying anything to him on the ride to the Remake Center the night before.

But the whole day had been such an emotional roller coaster ride, and that last few minutes with Annie, the promises they’d made, had been almost too much. Gloss had noticed something was wrong and he’d been sympathetic and there was so much shared history between them…. After Gloss mentioned to Finnick that he’d made a mistake regarding the way he acted toward Annie, that he had no idea that Snow wasn’t using her, too, Finnick had told Gloss of the arrangement he had with Snow that protected Annie. And he’d told him of his own fears regarding that arrangement once he went back into the arena.

When Finnick still doesn’t respond, Gloss says, “I didn’t say anything to Cash, Finnick. This isn’t about tomorrow or the arena.” He squeezes the younger man one more time and then lets him go. “It’s about Annie.”

There are so many things Finnick wants to say, to ask. _Why did you say anything to Silke? Why would you do anything for Annie? Why didn’t you tell Cashmere?_ Finnick knows the answer to that last question. Cashmere would definitely use the knowledge against Finnick, if she ever had the chance, because she is far more ruthless in her dealings than her brother ever was. But in the end it all boils down to one question: “Why?”

“Because I like you, Finnick. And I like Annie.” He looks over at Cashmere, somewhat impatiently waiting for him to finish. “And I fucking hate Snow.”

Finnick closes his eyes. No, he and Gloss and Cashmere weren’t always enemies. He decides to take Gloss at his word, at least in this one thing. “Thank you, Gloss.”

Gloss tears his gaze away from his sister and looks at Finnick again. “I hope I’m not the one who kills you, Finnick.”

“Ha!” Finnick forces a cocky grin. “Never happen, but for what it’s worth, I hope I don’t have to kill you, either.”

Gloss gives him an answering grin. “In your dreams, Odair.” He walks over to Cashmere and she pulls him into her arms.

Laughing, Finnick walks backwards the few steps to join Johanna and Mags. “I’m still a better lay than you,” he calls to Gloss.

“Dick.”

“You better believe it, baby.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Odair,” Johanna says, standing now, leaning against Mags chair. “Have you slept with _everyone_ going back in?”

“Not everyone.” She rolls her eyes at him and Mags just shakes her head, amused, and holds her hands up for Finnick to take. “Wait. Do you mean _slept with_ slept with or are you talking sex?” He lifts Mags from the chair, swings her up so that her shoulder blades rest against his right forearm, her knees supported by his left. She locks her arms around his neck. “Because if we’re talking actual sleep…” He carries Mags to the elevators and Johanna pushes away from the chair to follow. Mags rests her head on Finnick’s shoulder and closes her eyes. He hasn’t seen her so exhausted since she was released from the hospital after her stroke.

“You think you’re so funny,” Johanna observes as she reaches past Finnick to push the call button. He just laughs. Before he boards the elevator, he glances over at Gloss and Cashmere one last time; they haven’t moved, still locked in each other’s arms, holding each other more like lovers than brother and sister. “Something wrong?” Jo asks.

As the elevator doors open Finnick shakes his head. “The Capitol has already broken something in all of us, Jo.” He doesn’t even know if he’s talking about the victors or the people of the districts, allowing the Capitol take their children year after year after year. “Why does it need to kill us, too?”

“It’s not the Capitol doing this, Finnick.” She gets on the elevator, punches the 4 and the 7, and Finnick follows her in as she leans back against the glass wall. Mags weighs nothing in his arms, even in her heavy satin gown, the skirt of which trails almost to the floor. “Our kind and benevolent president is killing us because he can.”

“Hush, child,” Mags tells her as the doors close. Finnick is morbidly amused that Mags doesn’t want Johanna to say something treasonous when Mags has been saying such things herself all night and far more publicly.

They’re silent as the car rises, leaving the lobby and the tributes from District 1 below. The chime for the fourth floor sounds and the car stops. The doors open. “See you in the arena,” Johanna tells them. Her voice is flat, but there is rage in her brown eyes as Finnick carries Mags from the elevator.

“Sleep well, Jo.” The doors shut off his view and he looks down at Mags. “How do we get through this, Mags?” _Through it to emerge alive and more or less whole on the other side._ She shrugs her thin shoulders, tightening her arms around his neck.

“One day.” A pause. “One hour at… time.”

The floor is quiet. All the bedroom doors are closed and there is only one lamp left lit in the living area. “I’m not going to let you die, Mags,” he tells her, wishing he could make it real.

She snorts. “’nother thing… not your… call.”

He says nothing else as he carries her to her room and sets her down on the bed. Switching on the bedside lamp, he asks, “Do you need help getting out of that?”

Her eyes dancing with amusement, she retorts, “Trying to make… clean sweep?”

He grins at her. “You know it.” She laughs, shoos him away with flapping hands.

“Ve a… tu _esposa_ , hijo.”

“Mags, _please_ stop.” But then it hits him what she said: go to your wife. Annie. His wife. His heart begins to beat in triple time.

“Won’t… arrest, Finn. El Castellano… _más_ fácil.” She reaches for the glass of tepid water next to the lamp.

Finnick hands her the glass, half pleads, “Then at least wait until we’re in the arena.” He never thought about it being easier for her to speak, but it is the first language she learned, so it makes a kind of sense. She hands the glass back to him when it’s empty, then nods her head toward the door.

“Go, boy. She waits.” He blinks. Annie is waiting for him. _You’ll have to wait until after the interviews to take it off her, Finnick._ Martin’s words, the vision of Annie in that gown, they echo in his head and, just as before, Finnick feels the blood rise into his face, making his cheeks burn.

“Good night, Mags,” he manages and spins, walking rapidly to the door.

xXx

The screen above the stage that shows the victors-turned-tributes all holding hands goes dark a second before the lights that surround the stage cut out. “What’s going on?” Annie asks, but before Martin has a chance to respond, the lights are back on, the audience around them starts shouting and screaming, and Peacekeepers march into the crowd, seeming to concentrate mainly on the mentors and stylists. A recording begins to play: “Citizens of Panem, return to your homes.” Above on the stage, Annie sees more Peacekeepers breaking up the line of tributes, pushing them toward the exits.

Martin stands. “Looks like they’re fighting against this becoming a riot.” At the end of the aisle of seats, a Peacekeeper motions for everyone in their section to come forward. A group is gathering, surrounded by more Peacekeepers between the aisles and as Annie watches, they start toward a waiting line of limousines, just like the ones they arrived in. Martin holds out his hand to Annie. “Shall we?”

She takes his hand as more Peacekeepers come up the line of seats behind her. “I don’t see much choice,” she responds. They follow Rae and Watt from District 3 toward the waiting Peacekeepers. Once they’re out of the narrow rows of seats, the Peacekeepers separate the victors from the stylists without regard to whether the victors are acting as mentors or, like Pierce from District 7, merely in the Capitol for the Games.

Not far in front of Annie and Martin, a Peacekeeper tells Cinna, “I’m sorry, sir, but everyone who isn’t a victor is required to return to his or her home. Only victors are allowed on the transports to the Training Center.”

“But I’m _staying_ at the Training Center. All my things are there. I have to be there at dawn to prep my tribute for the Games.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I have my orders. You’ll just have find your own way back in the morning.” The Peacekeeper turns his back on Cinna and motions Annie and Martin toward the last limousine in the line. “Hurry, please, Miss Cresta. It’s for your own safety.” Annie doesn’t buy that for a second, but she ducks into the open door of the limo and slides across the seat to make room for Martin and whoever else follows. She doesn’t want to be in the crowded, chaotic City Circle any longer, wants only to return to the Training Center and Finnick.

The ride from the City Circle back to the Training Center is slow but uneventful, their route clogged with cars and people, all trying to leave. There are six other mentors in the car along with two Peacekeepers, one in back with the mentors, the other in the passenger seat next to the driver. Annie sits in the corner and watches the city crawl by out the window, letting the conversations of the others float by. Other than Martin, she doesn’t know anyone else in the group. A trip that should take five minutes takes closer to forty-five.

When they finally arrive at the Training Center, everyone disperses to their own floors to be with their own people for the hours that remain before Launch. But no one is there when Annie and Martin step out onto their floor. The stylists and prep teams and Phineas, Capitol citizens all, were sent home and neither Finnick nor Mags is there yet.

“They’re probably just caught up in the crush. They’ll be here soon,” Martin says when he sees the worry in Annie’s eyes. “Are you hungry, Annie?”

She shakes her head. “No, I couldn’t eat anything. I think I’ll go change.”

“I guess I’ll see you in the morning?”

Annie nods and crosses to her room. She feels Martin watching her as she slips inside and closes the door. She rests her forehead against the cool, hard surface, wanting nothing more than for this day to end. But at the same time, she wants it to last forever, because with its end comes an even worse day to follow.

Straightening, she shakes herself mentally and heads into the bathroom, not bothering to turn on any of the lights in the bedroom. The darkness is more comfortable. Her head is starting to hurt from all the pins in her hair and she’s sure she’ll need a mirror to find them all. Finnick hates mirrors – too many people want to watch themselves with him – so the only one available to her is the one fixed to the bathroom wall.

The woman reflected back at her doesn’t look like the girl she knows. She looks beautiful and sophisticated. Save for her haunted eyes, she looks like she belongs in the Capitol. Annie shivers and reaches up, starts to pull pins from her hair.

She hears the bedroom door open and her heart beats faster in anticipation, but she doesn’t turn, doesn’t stop what she’s doing. Only a few seconds later he’s standing behind her, close enough for her to feel his breath on her skin. He skims his hands from her bare shoulders down her equally bare arms and their eyes meet in the mirror. Reaching up, Finnick pushes the heavy mass of Annie's hair aside, kisses her neck where it curves into her shoulder and she presses back against his body. Lightly he brushes his lips over her skin, but then he opens his mouth and scrapes his teeth over the same spot, follows with his tongue, tasting her.

Wanting more, Annie cants her head to the side and closes her eyes as he sucks and licks. He slides a hand around her waist, splays his fingers over her stomach, still sucking at her neck. Finally he drags his mouth away and pulls back a little. She watches him in the mirror as he looks at her hair and when their eyes meet, she quickly glances away; she doesn’t want to remind him in any way of those who use him, but he lifts a hand to her chin. “Look at me, Annie,” he whispers and she shivers. He doesn’t let her look away when he starts pulling pins, dropping them to the floor, but her hair doesn’t fall, stubborn, and he skims his fingers through it, caressing the bones of her skull until the last pin falls free, and the length of her hair with it.

Annie turns in his arms, the silk of her dress sliding against the silk of his suit with a rustle of fabric. She pushes her fingers through his hair and pulls his head down, stretching up to meet his mouth with hers. “I don’t want gentle,” she whispers into his mouth. “Not tonight.” She needs to feel him, needs to know that they’re both here and they’re both alive. She needs to know that he wants her as much as she wants him. She kisses him then, wanting to devour him, sinks her teeth into his lower lip, drops her hands from his hair down to his chest, sliding them under his jacket and pushing it from his shoulders. He shrugs it to the floor, kissing her just as hungrily. “Fuck me, Finnick,” she whispers and follows it up by biting his earlobe, not quite hard enough to draw blood.

Framing her face with his hands, holding her there, he fucks her mouth with his tongue. She pushes her hands under his shirt, dragging her nails across his chest, his stomach, shoving the thin silk up, nipping at his chest. Dropping his hands to her shoulders, he spins her, strokes her skin above the line of silk at her shoulders and then hooks his fingers into the fabric and pulls, tearing the buttons free and scattering them over the floor. The dress falls from its own weight, pooling at Annie’s feet.

Finnick glides his hands up her ribs, under her bra, pulls it up over her head. She leans back against him, twists a little, pulling him down for another kiss. Taking half a step back from her, he yanks off his shirt, drops it to the floor, sheds the rest of his clothing and then kneels naked behind Annie, pulling off her panties. He bites her hip and slides up her body, bends her over the counter, slipping one finger into her, two, fucking her with his fingers before he fills her, thrusting hard and fast.

The mirror is right there; Annie can’t help but watch him as he moves over and in her. He sees her watching, leans down and scrapes his teeth along her shoulder, bites her neck, stopping just short of pain. She turns her head toward him, shifts beneath him, curving toward him and he kisses her, then leans back again to pick up the pace. She moans, unable to stop the sound from escaping. The edge of the countertop digs into her hips as he pounds into her, but she doesn’t care as the tension inside her grows and grows until it finally explodes into a cry of his name.

After, he carries her to their bed, pulling her into his arms and covering them both with the sheet. Annie snuggles against his side, pressing the palm of one hand flat over his heart. “What are you doing?” He sounds amused.

It takes her a few seconds, she doesn’t want to tell him because if she says it out loud, she’s afraid he’ll laugh at her, that he’ll think her foolish or worse. Her voice is small when she finally tells him, “I’m memorizing your heartbeat.”

He doesn’t laugh. “Oh, Annie…” There’s no amusement in his voice now, only pain.

“That way I can keep it safe for you while you’re gone.” Her voice breaks at the end; she wishes it wouldn’t. She wishes she could be strong.

“I don’t think I can do this,” he whispers into her hair. She shifts her head to look up at him.

“You have to. They won’t let us go.” Her voice fades again to almost nothing. “We have to make it through so that we can go on.” She pulls herself up his body until her head is next to his on the pillow, their eyes level. She can smell the wood smoke and the salt sea, can hear Finnick tell his father that there’s a plan, that there’s a chance at something more. She brings her mouth to his and murmurs against his lips, so that no cameras can see, no listening devices can pick up her words. “Baby, you have to destroy their Games so that we can be free.”

Finnick stares at her, his eyes glittering in the bit of light that filters into the room from the moon outside. She doesn’t say anything else, just lays her hand over his heart again, listens to the strong, steady beat, breathes in his scent, memorizing it as she did his heartbeat and the feel of his warm body against hers. She drifts, fades.

“Ladies and gentleman, I give you the lovely Anwyn Cresta of District Four!” Caesar Flickerman’s voice rises to a crescendo as he stands beside Annie, raises her arm up over her head in a puppet wave. A ribbon of gauzy green silk slithers down her arm, flickering to blue and purple and silver before returning to its natural green as the rainbow crowd screams and shouts her name. Flickerman leads her to a pair of chairs and pushes her into one before sitting in the other with a flourish. “Isn’t she _gorgeous_?” He smiles, his too-white crocodile teeth glinting under the harsh lights as he raises his arms, encouraging the whistles and shouts and cheers from the audience. “It is absolutely no wonder you caught the uncatchable Finnick Odair.”

Annie can do nothing but stare at his bright white teeth and lavender hair as he leans forward and lifts one of her hands from her lap. She can’t breathe. “Tell me, Anwyn…”

“Annie,” she whispers. “I’m Annie.”

He cocks his head to one side and stares at her for a beat, licking his lavender lips. “Tell me, _Annie_. What are you afraid of? I think that’s something we all want to know.” There is a murmur from the audience that swells into a wave, crashes into her. _Tell us, tell us, tell us…._

“I don’t—”

“Now, now, Annie. No cheating. Everyone is afraid of something. I’m afraid my ratings will plummet.” Shouts of “Never!” and “We love you, Caesar!” rise up from the audience and he smiles toothily at them. He leans in again, schooling his features into serious lines, lifting her hand – which he never released – to his face and rubbing his cheek against the back of it. His face is like sandpaper and talcum, harsh and slippery. Annie shudders.

“Tell us what you fear, Annie.”

A screen over Caesar's head draws her attention. Cashmere in her gold interview dress, golden hair cascading in ringlets and bobbing curls over her shoulder, looks Annie in the eyes and says, “I’m afraid my brother doesn’t love me.” Annie blinks and Gloss replaces Cashmere. His tunic and trousers are gold, his dark hair tousled and his mouth bruised. “I’m afraid the Capitol loves me too much.”

One after the other, district by district, the tributes take their turn on the screen:

Enobaria… “I’m afraid the Capitol will chew me up and spit me out.”

Brutus… “I’m afraid I’ll die without honor.”

District 3… District 4…

In Mags’ place, Annie appears on the screen, looking frightened and confused. She looks at Caesar and the image on the screen does the same. She says nothing.

Finnick… “I’m afraid I’ll die alone and far from home.”

Caesar holds up a hand and the image changes, becomes a close up of Finnick’s face. “Surely that isn’t all that you’re afraid of, Finnick. Tell me more.”

Finnick’s eyes meet Annie’s and she nearly loses herself in the sea that she finds within them. “Of course there’s more, Caesar,” he says. And still he stares at Annie. She can’t look away, but then she doesn’t want to. “I’m afraid that my love will become just like me. I’m afraid that she’ll lose herself to the darkness and I’m afraid that I won’t be there to lead her out.”

District 5… District 6… District 7…

Johanna… “I’m afraid I can be hurt, after all.”

Cecelia… “I’m afraid my children will forget me.” There are three small children with her who all look just like her. She holds out her arms, smiles at them, but they stare at her blankly. The oldest of them, a boy, backs away from her, opens his mouth, and screams.

District 9… District 10…

Seeder… “I’m afraid I’ll lose control.”

Seeder’s image dissolves into Katniss and Peeta of District 12, standing together as they burn. They say nothing and the flames burn brighter, shorting out the screen, showering sparks down onto Caesar and Annie and catching their hair and clothes on fire, burning. Annie burns. And still Flickerman asks, “What are you afraid of, Annie?”

She half wakes, opens unseeing eyes to darkness, goes under again.

Annie navigates a maze, sand warm beneath her bare feet in spite of the chill fog that flows and swirls around her. She searches for Finnick, but she can’t find him anywhere. She tries to call for him, can feel the vibration of sound in her vocal cords, but she hears nothing; the fog muffles everything. The sand beneath her feet grows warmer, almost burning, but it can’t burn away the fog that surrounds her. There is the faint scent of roses in the fog, and it grows stronger the longer Annie searches. She’s frightened.

She calls for Finnick again, louder than before, and the fog steals the sound of her voice away. But it doesn’t steal every sound. A man’s laughter rings out, echoes around her even though it should be muffled by the fog. It’s not Finnick, but she knows the voice. The fog won’t muffle that voice because it belongs to President Snow, the voice, the fog. The tang of blood mingles with sweet roses.

Tendrils and eddies of fog swirl toward her, tinged with red. Cold fingers brush against her skin, lift and tug at her hair. She shouts for Finnick, but he doesn’t answer; the only answer is Snow’s laughter, right behind her. When she turns, all she sees is a growing red stain from which the fog retreats, trailing its icy fingers down Annie’s neck, between her shoulder blades, down her spine.

The sand burns the soles of her feet. The fog retreats further and further, clearing a narrow path in the reddening sand. Annie follows where it leads.

Finnick lies lifeless in the sand, the source of the still growing stain. Annie screams his name, can’t stop screaming. Her throat feels torn and bleeding from the force of the sound. Finally she screams herself awake, heart pounding in time with her pulse.

The lights in the room flick on and Martin and Mags stand in the doorway, but Annie’s brain doesn’t process what her eyes tell her until Martin helps Mags to Annie’s side. Mags sinks down onto the bed and holds her until she stops shaking, until she knows where she is again. The old woman tells Martin to go back to bed and to close the door behind him. Looking concerned, but no stranger to nightmares or their aftermath, Martin starts to comply, but Mags stops him. “Shirt,” she says, holding out her hand, pointing toward a puddle of seafoam silk on the floor. Martin turns and heads toward the bathroom, snatches up the puddle and hands it to Mags on his way back out the door.

Annie slips Finnick’s shirt on over her head, the silk cool but quickly warming against her skin. Mags pulls her back into the circle of her arms and Annie clings to her. The old woman just holds her, says things to her that have no meaning but that soothe all the same. She strokes Annie’s hair and rocks, back and forth, back and forth.

“I had a nightmare,” Annie finally says.

Mags snorts – “No shit.” – and Annie laughs, the sound shaky and tentative, but still a laugh for all that.

She can’t bring herself to tell Mags about the nightmares, to talk about them at all, especially not the second one. She doesn’t know what to say and so remains silent, lets Mags hold her, but the pressure of unspoken words builds up inside her until they become more unbearable than unspeakable and they pour out unchecked.

“President Snow told me that he understood why Finnick kept me to himself. And then he said that he was sure Finnick taught me well.” Mags’ hand on Annie’s hair stills, slides down to her shoulder. Her arms tighten around Annie, but she doesn’t interrupt the flow of words. “I know Finnick has some kind of agreement with Snow. About me, I mean. To keep me safe.” Mags kisses Annie’s forehead and Annie meets her eyes, still so young and full of life. “I don’t think Snow will honor that agreement once Finnick is…” She has to stop. She can’t say the words. If she says them, it will make them real. “…once Finnick is back in the arena. And I don’t think it will matter to Snow whether he comes back out again or… or not.” She falls silent then and remains that way for several minutes, but finally she asks, “What do I do, Mags?”

“Nothing to do. Survive. Do… what you have to.” There’s a long pause and then Mags kisses Annie’s hair. “Someday… _will_ end. Be _free_.” Mags begins to stroke Annie’s hair again. “You… so strong, Annie.” She doesn’t stumble over the words when she says, “Don’t let Snow break you.”

Annie doesn’t feel strong. She feels small and frightened. Her father brought her a rabbit once, when she really was small, maybe four years old. Before mama was lost at sea and papa slowly stopped coming home at all. It was tiny and soft, that rabbit, pretty. Every time anyone came near it, the rabbit would back into a corner and make itself seem smaller, hunker down in fear. That’s how Annie feels.

Mags shifts, settles back against the headboard. “Duerme, hija. Sleep. I… stay.” Annie slides further down in the bed and lays her head on Mags’ lap. She doesn’t close her eyes; it’s easier to keep the images of Finnick lying dead in the sand away if she’s looking at the dresser or the table by the door or at the wallpaper, none of which are red.

“Where is Finnick?” she asks.

“Don’t know.” Mags doesn’t say anything else, just continues to stroke Annie’s hair.

A few minutes later, Annie hears voices from the other side of the door. Martin and Finnick. She can’t hear what they say, but then the door opens and Finnick is there, wearing jeans and a plain shirt. As usual, he’s not wearing shoes and Annie smiles, pushes up from Mags.

“Annie, I’m so sorry.” He takes three strides to the bed and drops to his knees beside it, taking Annie’s hands in his.

“Where were you?” she asks, shifting a little so Mags can swing her legs over the edge of the bed. Martin steps into the room and helps Mags up and the two of them quietly leave. Annie isn’t sure if Finnick even notices.

“I went to talk to Haymitch. You were asleep.” He kisses her hands. “I didn’t think I’d be gone that long.” He looks up at her. “I’m sorry. Martin said it was bad?”

“It was just a nightmare.” Annie shrugs. “It’s already gone,” she lies. She smiles and tugs at his hands. “Come back to bed.” She needs to hold him close for as long as she can.


	21. Bloodstains On the Carpet

**Chapter Twenty-One – Bloodstains on the Carpet**

Cameras flash, staccato bursts of light that invade Finnick’s bloodstream, threaten to take over the beat of his heart. Paparazzi and reporters, grasping Capitolites surround him and Annie, blocking them from moving forward, from retreat. Something – a rock? – flies past Finnick’s head and glass shatters. People begin to shout and Peacekeepers in riot gear appear, advance on the crowd. Annie cries out as a man grabs her by the wrist and pulls her away from Finnick and then suddenly he’s awake. A crash sounds from the bathroom, something breaks, a brittle snap, a tinkle of glass fragments falling against each other. Sounds straight from his dream, but this is no dream.

“ _Finnick_!” Annie screams as a Peacekeeper drags her from their bed. Finnick reaches for her but another Peacekeeper blocks him as the first one lifts a frantically struggling Annie and literally carries her from the room. She knocks his helmet askew, smashes her fist into the visor, breaking it and tries to scream again, but the man covers her mouth with his hand and keeps heading for the door. She grabs the door jamb with both hands, leaving behind a smear of blood as the Peacekeeper jerks her free.

The violence of her struggle causes the Peacekeeper’s grip to slip. Annie bites his hand, draws blood, and the startled man drops her. The second Peacekeeper has some kind of rifle trained on Finnick, who watches the man’s eyes, waiting for his chance to take the gun or at least knock it from his grasp and go after Annie. A third Peacekeeper emerges from the bathroom, a plastic bag containing several small bottles in her hand. She shakes it, the pills inside rattling, and heads out of the room, past the first Peacekeeper, who has Annie pinned to the floor in the common room. He holds her, face down, as he fastens her wrists behind her back into gleaming metal cuffs.

Finnick’s guard’s eyes shift toward the movement in the other room, the tiniest twitch, and Finnick lunges. He succeeds in wresting the weapon away, but not before the man pulls the trigger, sending a pair of electrical leads into Finnick’s bare chest. Barbs sink into his skin. He is blinded by pain and his muscles lock. His heart pounds in his chest, feeling as though it will burst. He can’t breathe, can’t move even to release the rifle he holds in a spastic grip.

But then the Peacekeeper wrenches it from Finnick’s hands and with it the leads from Finnick’s chest. Suddenly Finnick can move. He pushes through the pain and scrambles from the bed. “Annie!” he shouts, stumbling toward the door. He tries to run to her, but as the first Peacekeeper drags Annie, still fighting, to the waiting elevator, the second shoves Finnick backward into the bedroom. He crashes into the bedside table, turns his fall into a roll and charges again for the door, but it slams shut as he reaches it. By the time he gets it open again, the elevator doors are closing, cutting off the sight of Annie, terrified, surrounded by Peacekeepers. He runs, but he’s too late. He smashes into the doors, tries to wedge his fingers into the seam to pry them open, but ends up pounding on them impotently.

In shock, still short of breath from the electricity, sick from it and from the adrenaline yet pumping through his body, Finnick turns his back to the doors and slides down them to the floor. He can’t think straight, his thoughts a jumbled mess, shot through with Annie’s terrified voice calling his name along with an unending refrain: _they took her, they took her, they took her_. Martin finds him there on the floor seconds, minutes, hours later, his head in his hands.

“Finnick? What’s going on? I thought I heard glass breaking. Did something…?” Finnick looks up at him and the look on Finnick’s face must be pretty bad, because the older man reels back as though struck.

“They took her, Martin.” That weak, pitiful croak can’t be his voice, but who else can it belong to? Martin looks from Finnick to the open door of the bedroom, at the lamp lying on the floor, still lit. Finnick doesn’t remember switching it on, doesn’t remember it falling. He forces himself to think, to work through what happened.

The noise and flashes in his dream must have been the Peacekeepers entering the room, turning on the lights, searching the bathroom for the drugs. The lamp fell during the struggle or maybe when he landed against the table. He drags his eyes from the lamp to Martin, who just asked him another question. Finnick doesn’t know what he asked, but it doesn’t matter. “Peacekeepers,” Finnick pushes the word past his teeth. “Peacekeepers took Annie.”

“What? Why?” Martin crouches in front of Finnick, staring at his chest and Finnick looks down, sees twin spots, bright red, above his right nipple, bisecting the marks left by Annie’s nails. A bruise already rises on Finnick’s right side where he struck the table; he doesn’t think any ribs are broken. Martin reaches out and forces Finnick’s head up. Their eyes meet and Martin studies Finnick’s face.

“I don’t know why,” Finnick says, but he does know. He does. “They never said a word.” His voice is stronger, recognizable but remote. A staticky white sound fills his ears; if he concentrates on it, he can make out words: _they took her_ , joined by _my fault_ , layered atop each other, deeper and deeper until he drowns in the sound.

Martin stands and holds out his hand. “I am so sorry, Finnick. I thought it was another nightmare or I would've come sooner.” Finnick stares stupidly at Martin’s hand. Through the static he hears noise from the hallway as Martin continues, “We’ll make some calls, see if we can find out what the fuck is going on.” His hand still hovers in front of Finnick. _What am I supposed to do with that? They took Annie._

Finnick doesn’t move and Martin drops his hand back to his side. Finnick’s gaze drifts to a red spot in the beige carpet, darker on one end, fading to individual stained fibers toward the other. Blood. It’s too far for him to reach from where he sits, he can’t touch it. Annie’s blood? That of the Peacekeeper she bit? There isn’t a lot of it. He can’t make himself look away. _My fault._

“What in the world was all that noise?” Phineas asks as he pops his head out the door of his room. Martin motions him over and the little man actually clucks at the sight of Finnick on the floor in his underwear. Hysterical laughter wells up inside Finnick, but he chokes it down.

“What the hell are you doing here, LaSalle?” Martin asks. _What?_ Finnick thinks. _Isn’t he supposed to be here?_

Evidently, Phineas has a similar thought. “I live here during the Games, Perch.”

“All the Capitol citizens were sent home after the interviews.”

“Oh, that.” He waves a hand in a dismissive gesture. “I went home, I showered, I came back.” He shrugs. “I’m required to be here on Game Day just like the rest of you. No Peacekeeper order can change that.”

“Not _just_ like the rest of us,” Martin retorts with a glance at Finnick.

Phineas blinks and whispers to Martin, “Was it another nightmare?” _A never-ending nightmare_ , Finnick thinks.

When Martin finishes telling Phineas what happened, he suggests, “As our official representative, I think you might get more answers than I can.”

Phineas nods, frowning, and returns to his room as Finnick rolls to his feet. He knows he’s moving like an old man; he feels like an old man, older than Mags or Woof, maybe both of them combined. His hands shake and he can’t make them stop. He shuffles into his room and he can feel Martin watching him.

Finnick picks up the lamp and sets it back on the bedside table; only then does he see the familiar cream and blue envelope sitting there, a bucket of ice water in the face. Bile rises as he picks it up like he’s lifting a viper, tears it open and reads the equally familiar handwriting: _You didn’t think you could keep her to yourself forever, did you? The drugs were merely a serendipitous pretext, one for which you have only yourself to thank._ There’s no signature, but then Finnick doesn’t need one.

Crushing the note in his fist, Finnick barely makes it to the bathroom in time, vomiting into the sink, already filled with broken glass from the shattered mirror, until there’s nothing left inside. He’s still retching, dry heaves, when Mags pushes in behind him. He doesn’t know how she got there without her cane, but it doesn’t matter as she strokes Finnick’s back and shoulders. She gently takes the note still clutched in his fist, shoving bits of broken mirror off the counter into the trash, clearing a space to smooth the note out flat.

She reads it and says distinctly, “Fucking Snow.” It cuts through the static in his head, clearing it away, and he turns his head toward her, meets her eyes. Mags’ are troubled, angry; Finnick doesn’t know what she sees in his.

“I can’t… I can’t stay here.” He turns back to the sink, runs cold water into the mess, splashes cold water on his face.

“Finn…”

He shakes his head, stopping whatever she was going to say. He pulls away from her. He doesn’t dry his face, just pushes past Mags into the bedroom. Feeling a little steadier if no less sick, he throws on jeans and a shirt, water soaking into it where it touches his neck and shoulders, and heads for the elevator.

“Where are you going?” Phineas asks, returning to the common room, dressed and phone in hand.

“I don’t know.” When the district rep starts to protest, Finnick shoots him a look filled with loathing. “Don’t worry, Phineas. I’ll be back in time for the arena. Wouldn’t want to miss _Game Day_.” The elevator arrives and he stabs in the code for the gymnasium floor.

When he reaches the gym he finds the doors open, which is good, considering he has no key and nothing with which to pick the lock. He flips on the lights. The boards damaged during training are gone and there’s a row of newly stained floor boards on a tarp in the middle of the gym. The smell of the chemicals, no doubt the reason the doors are open, adds to Finnick’s light-headed feeling.

He walks past the work zone and heads for the punching bag hanging in the far corner of the gym. He thinks he should maybe wrap his hands or put on gloves or something, but decides against it. He wants the pain, needs it to drown out Annie screaming his name, to drown out his failure. His sheer, arrogant stupidity.

“Why” – punch – “didn’t I _flush_ ” – punch – “the _fucking_ ” – punch – “things” – punch punch – “down the _toilet_?” He slams his arm into the bag, sets it swinging. Catches it and pummels it viciously. “ _Why_ did I” – punch – “ _keep_ them?” Now Snow has both Annie and a legitimate reason to keep her.

The sky outside the windows high on the east wall is beginning to lighten with the dawn when he hits the bag with a series of rapid blows that set it swinging again. He jabs at it, misses and overbalances, falls to his knees and drops further, folding himself until his forehead touches the floor and he begins to howl. He doesn’t know how long he screams, long enough that someone should probably have come to investigate, given how raw his throat feels when he finally stops. Only then, knuckles skinned and sticky with drying blood but nothing broken, does Finnick return to the fourth floor.

There is food laid out in the dining room, kept warm or cold, as appropriate. No one else is around. He controls the impulse to smash everything and instead forces himself to eat, although he has no idea what. He rinses the food down with as much water as he can handle, remembering his first time in the arena – the Gamemakers love to make the tributes dry up, starve. Why should Plutarch Heavensbee be any different, just because he’s theoretically on their side?

Finnick is slumped back in his chair and staring at the ceiling, feeling numb, when Phineas comes in. Finnick focuses on the feathery little man. “Anything?”

“Not much. She was arrested for illegal drug use, but that’s all I could get out of anyone.” He pours himself some water and sits down at the end of the table. “I was told there’s surveillance footage of her taking a highly illegal substance. And they found half a dozen different types of pills and powders, all illegal.” He frowns. “I don’t understand how she could have gotten them.”

Finnick closes his eyes. He thinks he might lose his breakfast. “They were mine.”

“What? _Yours_?”

He opens his eyes and rolls his head along the back of the chair until he’s facing Phineas. “Sometimes you need a little help to face the day.” He looks away again, stares up at the ceiling. “Or the night.” _My fault, my fault, my fault…_ “It’s not like they’re going to take _me_ into custody. What would be the point? No punishment could be worse than the arena.” _But you know that isn’t true, don’t you, Finnick?_

Finnick surges up from his chair and shoves away from the table, the chair toppling behind him. He stares down at his mostly empty plate and in a fit of rage, at himself, at Snow, sends everything on the table in front of him flying. His plate and his glass shatter against the wall and water drips down the ugly greenish wallpaper, mingling with the spicy red sauce that remains from the shrimp he must have eaten. Phineas stares after him as Finnick stalks to his room, but as soon as he closes the door, he deflates, the rage dissipating, leaving in its wake only despair.

He feels like the frightened boy he was ten years ago as he strips and heads into the shower. While he was in the gym, or maybe while he ate, someone cleared away the broken glass and tidied up the mess in the bathroom. The hot water of the shower stings his knuckles, the scratches on his chest and back.

Finnick pulls on underwear and a new shirt and the same jeans he wore to the gym, adds socks and shoes. He knows there’ll be something else waiting for him to change into at the Stockyard, so what he puts on now doesn’t matter. When he leaves his room, everyone else is already gone. He calls out once, just to be sure, but receives no answer. Alone, he heads up to the roof and the waiting hovercraft.

Most of the others are already on board when he gets there, only 11 and 12 still wait. He follows Peeta, takes the empty seat beside Mags; she briefly lays her hand on his forearm. No one questions why he’s late. When a technician approaches him to inject the tracker into his left arm, one of the other techs waves her off and Finnick laughs, poking at the tracker Officer Leto planted in his right arm when he was home the last time. Home _for_ the last time. He stops laughing.

Mags disappears with Rialla when they arrive in the staging area. Rafe appears with a blue jumpsuit and a fat yellow belt. He precedes Finnick into a tiny room with his name on the door and a stylized number 4. Finnick quickly changes and takes his place on the platform. He waits, trying not to think about what’s happening to Annie, hoping his family heeded his warnings and that he can keep the promises he made to Heavensbee.

Haymitch’s girl on fire lit the spark; now it’s up to him and the others to fan the flames into a conflagration that the fucking Capitol can’t control.

xXx

Annie is loaded into the back seat of a black car with black windows. She is flanked by two Peacekeepers, the one who carried her from the Training Center and the one who hurt Finnick. There are two more in front, one of them driving. Through her terror, all she can think of is how very little threat she poses to these four well-armed guards, all of whom are larger than she is. A laugh, somewhat hysterical, bubbles out of her fear. She laughs until she can’t laugh anymore and ends up choking back a sob.

The Peacekeeper in the front passenger seat stares at Annie when she starts laughing, keeps staring, her eyes drifting from Annie’s face down to her bare legs, lingering for a moment at her breasts and Annie wishes they had let her get dressed, wishes she had on more than just Finnick’s thin silk shirt.

It’s still dark outside, still a long time before dawn. The car winds through the streets of the Capitol and Annie counts the ones they cross, the ones they turn onto. When she reaches twenty-seven, the car stops in front of a large white mansion, both the building and grounds lit up by what seem like a million white lights. It’s a familiar sight, the presidential mansion, and it’s just as dazzling now as it was the night before. She feels the water pressing in on her.

The Peacekeepers take her, hands still cuffed behind her back, to an interior room on the ground floor and lock her in by herself. It’s an office, lined with dark wooden bookshelves and well-lit display cases that she would normally want to explore, but not like this. There is a large desk near one wall and behind it, nearly overwhelming in its size, is the presidential seal of Panem. To the right of the seal is another door. A faint coppery-sweet scent permeates everything but is much stronger near the desk, a combination of blood and roses. She’s in President Snow’s office in the heart of the Capitol.

There is a large, comfortable-looking leather couch along one wall, but Annie doesn’t want to touch that couch. She doesn’t want to touch anything and so she drops down to sit on the floor, leaning her shoulder against the wall opposite the door she came through. She has no desire to learn where the other door leads. The clock on the desk says 4:43. She wishes there was a window. Even when they forgot her on the train, there was at least a window so she could see the sun and clouds, see the stars. But maybe here in the heart of the Capitol, the garish lights of the city overwhelm the stars’ more subtle light.

Annie shivers and brings her knees up toward her chest, wishes she had a blanket or a sweater. She’s cold. Her shoulders are starting to hurt from the constant, awkward pressure inflicted by the cuffs. She can feel them cutting into her wrists, cutting off her circulation, but there’s nothing she can do about it.

To distract herself, Annie thinks about the first time she ever saw Finnick. It wasn’t on television. She told him about it once, but he didn’t remember it at all. She was thirteen and it was her second time in the reaping pool, waiting for them to call her name. Not that it happened then; her reaping was still four years away, but every year was the same. Always, she was sure this was the time. And as it turned out, they never called her name until just a few days ago – she volunteered for the Games that made her a victor.

That day in the square, the reaping for the 66th Games, she was nervous, not frightened, exactly, but she wanted them to just get it over with. She distracted herself then from her unpleasant reality by watching a gull, just as she distracts herself now with memories.

The gull settled on the tower of the Justice Building for a moment, then flew down looking for scraps of food in the crowd until someone chased it off, only to settle again on the spire and start the cycle over again. About the third or fourth time the gull launched itself in search of food, she looked up and saw Finnick Odair, the previous year’s victor and not much older than she was, watching her from the stage. When he noticed her noticing him, he smiled and winked at her and then pulled his attention back to whatever the mayor was saying.

The door beside the presidential seal opens, interrupting her reverie, and Annie freezes. The clock says 9:37; she must have fallen asleep at some point. She can’t feel her hands. When she looks up past the clock, President Snow is standing there, looking down at her.

“Good morning, Miss Cresta,” Snow says cheerfully, sounding almost surprised to see her. “I see you’ve recovered from our encounter a few days ago.” He closes the door and takes a step into his office, a step closer to Annie. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.” She blinks.

“Liar,” she whispers, and the water closes in over her head, taking her beyond fear.

“I beg your pardon?” The tone of Snow's voice is a warning.

Still huddled on the floor, still leaning against the wall, she says, louder, ignoring that warning, “You’re a liar. You had them bring me here hours ago.”

He crosses to his desk, shuffles some papers, then circles to sit on the front edge. “I’ll allow you that, Miss Cresta, but only once. Stand up.” With him actually in the room, only a few feet from her, the smell of blood and roses is nauseating and she’s glad she hasn’t eaten since dinner the night before.

She unfolds herself with some difficulty; her knees are stiff and her feet are all pins and needles from sitting in one position too long, but she finally steps away from the wall to stand in front of him, forcing herself to hold her head high. She shivers again when he shifts away from the desk and circles around her.

“You were a lovely girl five years ago, Annie. May I call you Annie? Miss Cresta seems so formal.” He doesn’t wait for her to respond to that, not that she believes he cares what her response might have been. “But you’ve grown into a beautiful young woman. Your time with Finnick has agreed with you.” She blinks rapidly at the mention of Finnick, curls her fingers into fists, her nails digging into her palms.

“Why am I here?”

“You’re here because you broke the law.”

“What law?” she asks, but she knows. _“It’s called Oblivion… It’ll make you forget, at least for a little while… It’s addictive and it’s highly illegal.”_ Finnick’s voice, the tiny blue pill she willingly took from his hand.

“Are you telling me that you were unaware that the drug known as Oblivion is illegal?” Snow tilts his head a little to the left as he studies her.

There is nothing she can say to that. He obviously knows she took it, that Finnick gave it to her. There are cameras everywhere in the Training Center, microphones. _Do snakes toy with their prey?_ Annie thinks and quashes more hysterical laughter.

“I am told, as well, Annie, that there have been quite a few instances of inappropriate contact between you and your tribute. You have broken the rules of the Hunger Games as well as the laws of Panem.”

“But that rule applies to adult mentors and underage tributes.” Annie wants to take the words back as soon as she says them, doesn’t want to give him any more power over her than he already has.

“Does it? I don’t recall seeing that wording in the rulebook.” He takes a seat behind his desk and Annie breathes a tiny bit easier, if only because there’s more space between her and Snow. “I’m sure the Games Commission’s legal team will look into that and if that is indeed the case, no sanctions will be imposed.”

“Sanctions?”

He leans his elbows on his desk, steeples his fingers in front of his face. “Yes, Annie. That kind of abuse of power brings with it stiff penalties.” She thought she was beyond fear, but she feels it growing inside her again now. “Of course, if they decide age is not a factor, the evidence against you is rather… significant.” There is a click behind her and then the sound of a breathy laugh ending on a moan, her own voice saying, _“They could call it ‘the Hunger Games After Dark,’”_ Finnick’s laughing comment about pay per view.

She whirls and there on a screen in the wall is herself and Finnick, moving together in surprisingly clear detail and lighting. She wants to cover her ears, her eyes, to shut out the sight and sound, but the handcuffs prevent her from moving her hands. She turns away from the screen, but the sight of Coriolanus Snow watching her is no improvement. Maybe the water rushing in to drown her will take it all away.

“That was quite clever of you, Annie. You’ve a delightful sense of humor.” Snow smiles, tinged with red, and Annie shudders. “I had of course heard the rumors that your Games had broken your mind, but, your episode in the victors’ lounge a few days ago notwithstanding, you seem quite sane to me.”

Behind her, the video begins to replay and the volume increases. “Please stop.” Snow allows it to play for a moment more, but then there is another click and the room falls silent save for her own harsh breathing.

“You will be very popular with the Capitol’s citizens, Annie, once this Quarter Quell is over.” She closes her eyes, clenches her fists even tighter, feeling her nails break the skin.

“Please…”

“’Please’ what, Annie?”

“Please… Please, let me go.” Tumbling free, the waves buffet her. “I want to go home,” she whispers.

“Home? I’m afraid the Capitol is your home now, Annie. for the foreseeable future. Even if the Games Commission’s legal team allows that you and your tribute were both consenting adults, there is still the matter of your illegal drug use.” There’s a knock at the door and a young man with dark greenish hair and a matching suit opens the door.

“Doctor Muhti is here to see you, Mr. President.”

“Show her in, please.” He glances again at Annie. “We’re done here, for now. And I believe you have a job you should be doing.” He looks at his desk clock and Annie’s eyes follow. 10:03. “Oh, dear. I’m afraid the Games have already begun. I do hope Finnick is still alive.”

All the air rushes from Annie’s lungs; she can’t breathe. Her knees begin to buckle as the water drags her down and the green man ushers in a tall woman with very long black hair; she stares at Annie, her gaze lingering on her bare legs and feet. “Please take Miss Cresta back to the Training Center,” Snow orders. “And find someone to remove those handcuffs.”

“Yes, sir.” The president’s assistant takes Annie’s elbow, preventing her from falling. “Please come with me, Miss Cresta.” He sounds almost sympathetic.

She still can’t breathe as she follows the man from the room. Behind her, Dr. Muhti asks, “Is that Annie Cresta? Henrik and I would dearly love to meet her, once the Games are over…”


	22. Slaves to the Beat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dialogue between Finnick and Katniss in this chapter is taken directly from Catching Fire; the descriptions, etc., are mine.

**PART III – THE ARENA**

**Chapter Twenty-Two – Slaves to the Beat**

The platform rises and the relative darkness of the Launch Room gives way to light so intense it’s a physical pressure on his skin. The tube surrounding him retreats and a warm breeze takes its place. Just like that, Finnick is in the arena, surrounded by blue-green water and brilliant pink sky, the sun so blinding overhead following the darkness below ground that he can barely keep his eyes open against the glare. He wonders what the odds are that sunglasses might be part of the bounty of the Cornucopia this time around.

 _“Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-fifth Hunger Games begin!”_ Claudius Templesmith’s voice booms out over the water, directionless, all-encompassing, quickly followed by an androgynous voice counting down the seconds to the gong.

Finnick stands loose and ready on his plate, water lapping up over the edges to kiss the soles of his light-weight shoes. He uses that minute to orient himself and to search what he can see of his surroundings. The water is the color of the summer sea back home and he can smell the salt of it, is blindsided by a sudden longing for home, but he chokes it down. There’s no time.

About fifty yards to his right a strip of land leads to a small island and the golden glint of the Cornucopia in the distance. So that’s his goal. Beyond the strip of land is another figure in blue, but between the distance and the sun’s brilliance, he can’t make out who it is. Another fifty yards or so to his left Cecelia, dressed in an identical blue jumpsuit and yellow belt, stands on her platform, no doubt making the same assessments he is. Finnick wonders if she can swim. Beyond her is another strip of land and another figure in blue, but from this distance he can’t even tell male or female, let alone who.

When the gong sounds, he wastes no time in worrying about whether or not there are muttations in the water, he just assumes that there are. He can either swim the distance from his plate to the Cornucopia or he can swim the shorter distance to the strip of land to his right and sprint the rest of the way. Whatever he decides, given the design of this arena, he has to swim, mutts or not; he can see no alternative route to the horn. Finnick dives toward the spit to his right. The rest of the arena might be a bitch to navigate, but this he can do.

His dive barely takes him beneath the surface before he bobs back up again. He blinks water from his eyes and looks down, focusing on the yellow belt at his waist. It’s a flotation device, like the ones they use for the little ones back home, the kids who don’t yet know how to swim. Unlike some of the others in this arena, he has no need of it and isn’t going to let it slow him down. But he doesn’t know if that’s all it is and so he can’t take the chance on just ditching it. Quickly unfastening the belt, he folds it in half and stuffs it down the back of his jumpsuit, where it will cause the least amount of drag.

A quick scissor kick propels him forward and then he reaches out, adopting a freestyle stroke that pulls him rapidly through the water. It doesn’t take long to reach land. He hauls himself up onto the sandy strip, which seems to be more of a bridge than a true sand spit. From what he could see on his approach, it doesn’t extend downward more than a couple of feet under the water and there is no taper from sea bottom below to dry sand above. If he gets the chance, he’ll take the time to explore a little, but for now, he stands up and shakes himself, flinging water everywhere.

He’s the first one to reach land, at least on this side of the Cornucopia. A quick glance around shows a couple of blue figures bobbing in the waves. Most seem to still be on their plates, although the one closest to him – not Cecelia – is approaching rapidly. He still can’t tell who it is, enemy or ally, and so he runs for the Cornucopia. He’ll take what he can and clear out, look for Mags and the others as he’s able.

The gold of the horn is blinding under the crushing sun. Finnick is careful not to look directly at it as he comes in just to the left of the mouth. Piled in front of the opening are weapons. Swords, knives, spears, bows and sheathes of arrows, axes, clubs with spiked heads. “Brutus ought to be happy,” he mutters. As if it’s meant for him, a trident perches on top of the pile; as he grabs it he spots a bit of what looks like a net spilling out of the stack just below eye level. He yanks on it, pulling it free, but before he can take anything else, he hears footsteps sliding through the sand from the spit behind him and a little to his right.

He dodges around the side of the Cornucopia and slips back into the water, the pile of weapons hiding his movements from her view as Katniss Everdeen runs full tilt toward the golden horn. _I should’ve known she could swim._ Without hesitation, she takes hold of a bow and reaches for a sheath of arrows partially buried under an odd assortment of knives.

While her attention is on the weapons, Finnick silently lays his trident on the sand and pulls himself up again from the water as quietly as he can. Retrieving the trident, he readies the net to throw, if need be. Just because Haymitch wants him to be her ally doesn’t mean that she’s on board with that plan, or that she even knows about it, and the last thing he wants is to be the first casualty of these Games.

Katniss whirls, sets arrow to string and raises her bow in one seamless motion, her arrow pointed straight at Finnick’s heart. Adrenaline surges into his bloodstream as he lifts his trident reflexively. “You can swim, too,” he says, hoping to distract her long enough for the tenseness of the moment to pass. He doesn’t want to die. Not like this. “Where did you learn that in District Twelve?”

“We have a big bathtub.” Her aim doesn’t waver. _Damn._

“You must. You like the arena?” _What the fuck, Odair?_ Finnick cringes inside, but holds himself steady. _If I was her, I’d shoot you on principle after that dumbass remark._

“Not particularly. But you should. They must have built it especially for you.”

Her words, the bitterness of her tone, sink in as he blinks away a trickle of saltwater that drips into his left eye. She’s right. The Gamemakers – Heavensbee – designed the part of the arena immediately surrounding the Cornucopia specifically to give an advantage to anyone who could swim. All the flotation belts can do is stop someone from drowning right away. Finnick wonders when in the process they decided on this element of the arena, if it was after he agreed to volunteer or before. Were they that sure of him?

“Lucky thing we’re allies, right?” He shifts to get a better grip on his trident, giving his wrist a shake to loosen the bangle Haymitch gave him so that it drops an inch or so, catching the sun.

Katniss focuses on it and all but snarls, “Right!” There is an unexpected glint of anger in her eyes and her stance shifts minutely. Even as he fears she’s going to shoot him anyway, as Haymitch warned him she might, a sudden movement behind her drags Finnick’s attention from Katniss to a figure in blue barreling toward her.

“Duck!” he shouts, hoping she’ll react instinctively to the urgency in his voice and do as he says. He lets his trident fly past the space her head occupied less than a second before. It catches Hamilton from District 5 in the chest, stopping him in his tracks, the tines sliding between his ribs to pierce his heart and left lung. The man’s eyes widen in surprise and he looks down at the thing sticking out of his chest. His gaze locks on Finnick and he falls to his knees, then sideways in a heap on the sand.

Finnick retrieves the trident from Hamilton’s body, blinking hard to clear his vision. “I am so sorry, Ham,” he whispers, pushing down the memories of Hamilton laughing with him over a game of cards or arguing the merits of one particular vintage over another. He buries them into a corner of his mind along with the fact that he just killed another human being. Again. And this time it wasn’t a stranger but a man he’s known for years.

He’ll deal with it later, if he’s allowed the time.

xXx

The clock on the dashboard reads 10:16 when the car finally stops in the garage beneath the Training Center. Annie frantically tries to open the door herself, but it won’t budge; she has to wait for the driver to let her out. He starts to say something to her, but she pushes past him and sprints for the elevator. There’s nothing he could possibly say that she wants to hear, nothing he couldn’t have said between the president’s mansion and the Training Center. A distant part of her brain reminds her that all she’s wearing is underwear and Finnick’s shirt as her bare feet slap against the smooth, cold concrete, but she has to get to the mentors’ control room. Nothing else matters.

As soon as the elevator doors open, she punches the button for the lobby. The only route she knows is the one she followed with Martin while Finnick was in training: through the lobby and from there across the courtyard to the double doors at the far end. The doors open and she covers the short distance between elevator and courtyard in three steps, slamming through the doors and into the sunshine.

She dashes across the bricks to the Headquarters building, ignoring the ghosts of her fellow victors and their ball game, of herself and Finnick when he asked her to marry him and she said yes. Reaching the other side, she shoves at the double doors but she can’t get them open and a sob tears free from her throat. The configuration of the doors penetrates her brain. _Idiot! Wrong direction!_ She yanks them open and runs for the elevators, slams the heel of her hand against the call button.

It seems to take forever for the car to arrive as Annie paces a rapid figure eight, but it’s really only a few seconds. It barely registers that there are people watching her, who continue to watch her pace as the glass elevator, twin to the one in the Training Center, rises. It finally stops and she bursts into the victors’ lounge, knocking her shoulder painfully against the elevator doors before they’re fully open. There is no one in the room. She stops dead in her tracks at the sight on the television of a man in a blue bodysuit bleeding out on a sandy beach, just like in her nightmares. The gold of the Cornucopia glints in the background as the camera pans toward it, the picture pixelating slightly as the brightness of the light momentarily overwhelms the camera’s optics.

“Finnick?” she whispers. The sound of her own blood roars in her ears. On screen, a man stands over the body, a bloody spear in his hand. A dark-haired girl holding a bow and arrow, a sheath of arrows at her feet, watches him. Annie stares transfixed at the screen as the scene changes to show a man jump from a plate into the water, sending up a splash that glitters in the sun. She can’t look away, can’t move, can’t breathe, not until a sharp sound breaks through the flood waters that threaten to engulf her and she looks up toward the door at the top of the stairs.

She blinks, her eyes dry and sticky, expecting someone to come through the door above, but nothing happens. She doesn’t know what the sound was. Annie turns back to the television. It still shows only blue water shimmering under a pink sky as another tribute, this time a woman, steps off her plate and bobs on the waves. The scene changes again, focusing on the pair of tributes from earlier as they separate and circle the Cornucopia, one on either side of it, before the camera pans again over the dead man on the bloody sand.

There’s a sharp sound of metal on glass and Annie looks up once more, sees Haymitch wearing a headset and tapping on the window in the middle of the propped-open door with the hilt of a knife. That must be what she heard before. When he sees her looking, he gestures for her to come up the stairs and she realizes that he said her name at least twice before he started tapping, but it couldn’t penetrate the murky waters in her mind. She moves slowly up the stairs, dreading what she’ll learn from the others in the control room.

“Annie!” Near the far corner of the room, Martin jumps to his feet. There are voices all around her, people sitting or standing in front of screens or pacing back and forth, but she can’t seem to translate any of it into anything that makes sense. “Annie?” Martin again. She blinks. He stands right in front of her. She didn’t see him cross the room.

He takes her hand, leads her to the empty chair beside the one he vacated and pushes her into it. Annie sits. Someone – Rae? – presses a glass of water into her hands. Annie looks around the room, dimly sees the views on the monitors, one showing nothing but static while the others all display some variation of blue water, pink sky, harsh light, figures dressed in blue. Most of the other mentors watch those screens rather than her, although there are occasional glances her way. Even so, Annie feels raw and exposed.

“Martin?” She looks up at him, begs him with her eyes to tell her that wasn’t Finnick lying dead in the sand, but it isn’t Martin who answers.

“Finnick’s alive, Annie,” Haymitch says from right beside her, his voice oddly gentle. He swivels her chair toward him and crouches down in front of her. He still wears the headset, black metal and plastic with highlights of blue, the same shade as the tributes’ jumpsuits. “He and my girl just became allies.”

She tears her gaze away from the headset, forces herself to look at Haymitch, to meet his eyes. “That wasn’t Finnick on the beach?” Her own voice sounds so lost…. The image of the man in blue is tangled up with the image in her nightmares of Finnick lying dead in the sand, surrounded by a growing red stain.

“It wasn’t him _dying_ on the beach, no,” Haymitch confirms. “That was Hamilton, from Five.” His voice catches on the name and his eyelids flutter, trying to close for half a second. “Not Finnick, Annie.”

Finnick is alive. She can think again, breathe again. She feels as though she hasn’t taken a real breath since before she left Snow’s office. _But I must have, because I'm still conscious. Aren't I? Or is this all just another nightmare?_ Shaking off the disquieting thought, Annie nods her head and lifts the glass of water to her lips, but her hands are shaking and she feels suddenly nauseous, the urge to vomit so strong that she knows she can’t fight it. She stands and sets the glass down on the counter, but it only half catches the surface, too close to the edge. It falls to the carpet, splashing her legs and the hem of her shirt with cold water as she runs for the door, hoping to reach the bathroom down the hall before she loses the contents of her stomach.

“What the hell is wrong with her?” a man asks. If anyone answers, she doesn’t hear it.

Before the bathroom door closes off the sound, Claudius Templesmith’s voice drifts up from the victors’ lounge. _“District Four’s Finnick Odair should soon be officially credited with the first kill of these 75th Hunger Games. Congratulations, Finnick!”_

Annie vomits into the toilet until there’s nothing left.

xXx

It doesn’t take long to determine that there is nothing but weaponry at the Cornucopia, no other supplies of any kind. As Finnick and Katniss search, gathering up whatever they want and can carry, others reach land. Gloss, Enobaria, Brutus. Katniss sinks an arrow into Gloss’ calf, punctures Brutus’ belt in a spray of purple goo and the Careers dive back into the relative safety of the water. There is no sign yet of Cashmere, but Finnick is sure she isn’t far behind. He and Katniss run down the nearest sand spit, heading toward the beach, but she abruptly stops, looking out over the water.

“Peeta!”

Finnick looks in the direction she’s facing and sees her district partner still standing on his platform a couple of sections over. Apparently, he never made use of that big bathtub of hers. And then Katniss is running back the way they came, headed for the closest spoke to Peeta. Finnick follows. All that matters at that moment is keeping the Mockingjay safe, and it seems that part of keeping her safe is to keep Peeta safe.

When Finnick reaches Katniss, she has already dropped her bow and sheathes of arrows, is starting to remove some of the knives she picked up, but Finnick stops her.

“I’ll get him,” he tells her as he divests himself of weapons. Remembering the belt he stuffed down the back of his jumpsuit, he pulls that out, too, dropping it to the sand. He certainly doesn’t need it and Peeta already has one that Finnick can use to tow him in.

“I can,” Katniss protests, but she stops removing weapons. He studies her for a second. She probably can, small as she is, but he still isn’t sure there aren’t any mutts out there and he _is_ sure she can handle herself on land. He doubts that argument would work, but her own district partner gave him one that might.

“Better not exert yourself,” Finnick tells her with a wry smile. “Not in your condition.” He pats her abdomen to remind her and all of Panem that she’s supposed to be pregnant and then steps away from her to the edge of the spit of land. “Cover me.”

He doesn’t wait for her acknowledgement before he dives into the water and strikes out toward the supposed father of her fictional child. He’s sure their romance was conceived strictly for the Games and he’s just as sure her pregnancy is the same, but it’s good either way: the people of the districts are protective of their children. If they think Katniss is pregnant with Peeta’s child, putting them both back into the arena can only add fuel to the flames of rebellion.

Finnick slices rapidly through the water, heading for the boy still stranded on his plate. Inquisitive schools of fish dart in as one entity to see what he is and dart away just as quickly. None of them seem to be anything more deadly than a herring.

As Finnick draws closer, Peeta crouches down, watching him, waiting, balanced in a wrestler’s stance. His new position would make it harder for an attacker to send him into the water by grabbing his ankles and pulling, but even so there’s not much he could do if Finnick planned to attack. Not and stay out of the water.

Finnick slows, stops a couple of yards out from the plate and treads water. Peeta’s expression is wary. Finnick grins.

“Need a ride?” he asks.

Blue eyes widen and a corner of Peeta’s mouth twitches as he fights a startled laugh. “Where're you headed?”

“There’s a sweet little beach not far from here. Thought I’d check it out.” He gestures with his head toward the spit of land and the girl who stands there watching them, bow in hand and arrow to string, but pointing toward the ground. At least for now. Peeta follows Finnick’s gaze and then he meets Finnick’s eyes.

“I can’t swim.”

Finnick laughs. “Yeah. I figured that out.” He moves in closer, sure now that he’s in no danger from Peeta. “Jump in. I’ll tow you.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because you can’t swim?”

Peeta shakes his head, makes no move toward the water. “No, why would you help me?”

“Because we’re allies and you need help.” Peeta frowns.

“Did Katniss agree to that? Or is this a Haymitch thing?”

Finnick grins. _Smart kid_ , he thinks, but says aloud, “Haymitch, of course. But I _am_ here with her blessing.” Peeta looks again toward the girl watching them, shifts to a sitting position on his plate, then slides into the water feet first. He looks surprised when he doesn’t sink any further than mid-chest.

“The belt’s a flotation device,” Finnick tells him as he moves in closer. “Lift your arms.” When Peeta complies, Finnick puts a shoulder under one arm and unfastens Peeta’s belt.

“But if it helps me float…”

“It’s more useful as a tow rope,” Finnick tells him as he wraps one end around Peeta’s right wrist and ties it off. He closes Peeta’s fingers around the belt. “Don’t let go of it, just in case.” Then he takes hold of the other end and repeats what he did on his own right wrist. He strikes out on his left side, pulling Peeta behind him. “Don’t move your arms, Peeta, but watch my legs and then try to kick like that, at about the same rate.”

Their pace improves once Peeta forces himself to relax and follow Finnick’s lead. There’s no more conversation. About a minute in, they both spot a figure swimming toward Katniss and while Peeta tenses, Finnick relaxes, recognizing that white hair even from this distance. “Don’t worry. It’s Mags.” He glances at Peeta. “Another ally.” Finnick picks up the pace a little more, anxious to reunite with his old mentor, more relieved than he can say that she’s there and alive as beyond her and Katniss the bloodbath at the Cornucopia begins in earnest.

xXx

With the push of a button, Annie flushes away the mess in the toilet, but she doesn’t move from where she kneels, still too shaky to stand. She stares unseeing at a spot on the wall, she has no idea for how long, when behind her the door opens. Warm hands stroke her shoulders, pull her hair away from her face.

“You’re not alone, Annie,” Martin says, hunkering down beside her. “And neither is Finnick.” She turns her head to look at him. Like Haymitch, he still wears his headset. Annie reaches up, touches it with one fingertip, but then Martin takes her hand in both of his, gives it a little shake, forcing her to look at him, to see him. “There was a brief fight with the Careers, but Finnick and Katniss are fine. They’ve left the Cornucopia. They won’t be part of the bloodbath, Annie.” When she doesn’t say anything, he releases her hand and stands. Looking down at her, he tells her, “If you want to go back to our floor and get cleaned up, I think you have time.”

He doesn’t wait for her to respond, doesn’t seem to expect her to respond; he turns and heads for the door. Annie lets him go. She doesn’t know what to say. After a time, she pushes herself up from the floor and goes to the row of sinks near the door. Washing her hands, she stares at her face in the mirror above the sink. Pale skin, haunted green eyes underscored by blue shadows, a tangled mass of hair. It’s not the first time she’s seen that image in the mirror and it probably won’t be the last. A shower would be nice…. Cupping her hands, she fills them with water and rinses away the acid taste in her mouth, spits it out into the sink.

No one stops Annie as she retraces her route to the Training Center, not her fellow mentors, not Peacekeepers, not even Headquarters or Training Center staff, although a few follow her with their eyes. Once more in the familiar territory of the fourth floor, Annie surveys the room she so recently shared with Finnick. It isn’t right that they made the bed, that the room looks as it always looks. They even replaced the mirror over the bathroom sink. It all gives the impression that nothing happened. _But there should be something, some trace of the violence that was done to us_ , Annie thinks, tears stinging the backs of her eyes.

Turning around in a circle, her gaze catches on a faint smear of brownish red on the inside of the doorway leading to the common room, just above eye level. She lifts her left hand and looks at the scabbed-over gash on the side of it where the Peacekeeper’s broken visor tore the skin. The smear is at about the right placement for where she tried to hold onto the jamb, to stop them from taking her.

She sits down hard on the end of the bed, overwhelmed. They’d made love last night until they were both exhausted and as hard as she tried to stay awake, to not waste any of their precious time together, she couldn’t do it. She shivers at the memory of Finnick’s last words to her before she fell asleep in his arms. “Don’t forget me,” he whispered into her hair. She hadn’t even heard it at the time; it was only later that his words sank in.

And then it finally hits her: he isn’t coming back. Peacekeepers carried him off to his fate as surely as they did her. They sent him to the arena with the knowledge that there is no safety anywhere for either of them. She can’t protect him now anymore than he was able to protect her.

Annie lets her tears fall and she chokes on a sob, doubles over to bury her face in her hands and doesn’t stop the awful sounds when they come, carrying with them her grief and despair. When the storm subsides, she is empty.

Eventually, Annie lowers her arms, lifts her head, starts to straighten. Her gaze snags on something small lying beneath the dresser. She slides off the bed to her knees, stretches forward and pulls a small piece of knotted rope from under the dresser, where the cleaning staff would never find it. Practice rope, a thin piece of cord left there for who knows how long, forgotten, woven into a knot that Finnick showed her the night before the car took him to the Capitol that last time.

That night she had awakened alone. A glance at the clock said that dawn was still a few hours away and the car wasn’t scheduled to pick him up in town until 9:00. She lay there, very still, listening. It was faint, she couldn’t even tell what the sound was, but she heard it all the same. She sat up in their bed, her hand automatically going to Finnick’s side only to find the sheets cold to the touch. He’d been gone for some time.

“Finnick?” The sound stopped, then started again.

“I’m here.” She looked toward the sound of his voice and saw the silhouette of his head rising above the bed on his side.

“What are you doing?” She shifted until she was on her stomach, lying across the bed, her head next to Finnick’s where he sat on the floor beside it, resting his shoulders against the mattress.

He looked over at her and kissed the tip of her nose. “I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t want to wake you.” There was just enough light that she could see the piece of rope in his hands as he worked a knot. “ _Did_ I wake you?”

She rested her chin on his shoulder and concentrated on the movements of his hands. “Not really. I was cold.”

“Cold? It’s got to be eighty degrees in here.” He sounded amused. The air conditioner worked sometimes and sometimes it didn’t; the past couple of days it couldn’t keep up with the late spring heat wave the district was under. Smiling, Annie reached out to trace a line down the back of his neck with her fingernail, making him shiver.

“See?” she says. “You’re shivering.”

“Not because I’m cold.” Without warning, he reached up, grabbed her wrist and tugged. She wasn’t expecting that and barely stopped him from pulling her off the bed onto the floor. His eyes glittering in the faint ambient light, Finnick grinned, his teeth a pale spot in the darkness. “Want to see?” He held up the piece of rope, another pale spot.

Annie rolled across the mattress until she could reach the lamp and turned it on low. They both blinked at the sudden light and Annie rolled back to Finnick. He watched her, laughing.

“What?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Just you. You’re silly.”

“And you love me.” She held out her hand. “Let me see,” she demanded and he handed her the knot, worked on a thin piece of white silk cord. “It’s pretty.” She studied it, trying to follow its twists and turns.

Finnick shifted so that his right shoulder leaned on the bed, bringing his face closer to Annie’s. “It’s called an eternity knot.” She glanced over at him and as soon as she did, he stole a quick kiss. “Or a lover’s knot.” And then a not-so-quick kiss that left them both a little breathless.

When he pulled away, she asked, “Show me?”

He pulled her into his lap so that she leaned against his chest, then put his arms around her while he worked the knot slowly a couple of times for her to watch and then they’d worked it together. And eventually, he laid the rope aside and they moved on to other things, finally sleeping peacefully for a couple of hours before the alarm woke them. They’d left for the mainland in Finnick’s speedboat around 8:00 and she’d gone on to stay with his parents for the weeks that he was away.

 _It really was the last time_ , she thinks. The next time he had to return to the Capitol, it was on a train after the reaping. And that quickly, another storm descends; she isn’t empty after all.

When this storm passes, too, Annie remains on the floor. She tugs at the bit of rope, pulls out the knot and then without thinking about it, without watching the motion of her own fingers, and staring blankly at a spot on the carpet just outside the bedroom door, she reworks it. Finnick called it an eternity knot, a lover’s knot, two separate loops woven together to make an inseparable whole. The end result isn’t as tight and elegant as the one Finnick wove, but it is recognizable. Finnick would be proud of her. If he were here.


	23. Out of the Shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are deaths in this one... :(

**Chapter Twenty-Three – Out of the Shadows**

It’s hot and humid and Finnick is dripping with sweat. Mags is a more or less dead weight on his shoulders, her arms threaded through the net tied around his body like a sling to help her hold on. She carries two of the three tridents he grabbed up from the Cornucopia, since they kept slipping in his sweat-slick hands, the third he holds himself in case of attack. It seems as though they’ve been climbing for hours, fighting their way through the thick jungle, but judging from the angle of the sun when it occasionally breaks through the canopy, it can’t have been all that long.

There are vines everywhere, hanging from the trees, clinging to the huge rocks that protrude here and there from the ground, snaking across their spongy path to trip the unwary. To look at them, they’re identical to the ones from Finnick’s Games and he keeps an eye on them, but none of them have moved independently so far. _They’re probably just mundane vines_ , he tells himself, but they still make him jumpy.

Mags slips a couple of inches down his back again and Finnick pauses to boost her up, gets a better grip under her knees, puts more of his forearms under her thighs. He hates that she’s here. She should be safe and comfortable back home, doting on her grandchildren and great grandchildren. Or terrorizing them. She adjusts her grip on his shoulders, twisting one wrist more securely into the net.

“Ready, Mags?”

“ _Born_ ready, boy.” He laughs and hurries to catch up to Peeta as the boy cuts his way through the jungle with a long knife. Finnick doesn’t hear Katniss following behind, but he knows she’s there, arrow at the ready if any kind of trouble dogs their trail. He’s pretty sure there wouldn’t be a trail at all if she were on her own. He’s equally sure that she’d rather _be_ on her own. She never wanted to ally with him, probably wouldn’t be with him now but for Mags.

He trudges forward, lets some distance develop between him and Peeta again so that he can listen to the too-quiet jungle, but even then, all he hears is Peeta. There isn’t even the buzz of insects, let alone the call of creature or bird. Mags’ cheek rests on the back of his head and when she exhales past his ear, it’s the only breath of air in the stillness of the jungle. Her muscles begin to relax as she drowses. She slips, waking herself with a start.

“Siento, hijo,” she apologizes as she tries to lock her fingers again in the net, but she can’t force them any tighter. Her hands are giving out on her. Finnick shifts her weight again, but her hold on him, both the arm around his neck and her legs around his waist, is noticeably weaker.

“Can we take a breather?” Finnick calls. About twenty feet in front of him, Peeta immediately stops.

“Everything okay?” Katniss asks as she comes up behind Finnick. He didn’t realize she was so close.

“Yeah,” he tells her. “I just need a couple minutes.” She nods as he lets Mags slide to the ground. He doesn’t let go of her until he’s sure her legs are steady. Mags pats Finnick on the cheek and points toward a large rock, so he lifts her again and deposits her there, instead. Sitting on her rock she looks exhausted and miserably hot and older than Finnick has ever seen her and it hits him just how likely she is to die here.

Worried, he kneels in front of her, smoothing her hair back from her face. Searching her eyes, her lined face, bronzed by decades in the sun, seeing her dry, cracked lips, he shakes his head. “We have to find water.”

“Will _find_ , boy. Don’t worry… about _me_.” Still beside Finnick, Katniss looks down at Mags. A tiny line forms between the girl’s brows.

“You three stay here,” she tells them. “I’m going to climb up and see if I can see anything useful.” Finnick glances up at her, then drops the rest of the way to the ground to sit next to Mags, leaning with his back half against her rock and half against her leg.

“Be careful, Katniss,” Peeta tells her.

“Always.” Katniss leaves her weapons at the base of the tallest of the trees, which she quickly scales. Finnick watches her climb, swift and graceful, as Peeta sinks to the ground on Mags’ other side. Shifting so that their backs are toward each other, he, Mags, and Peeta form a triangle with a comprehensive view of the surrounding area. Katniss, high above where she can see over the heavy canopy of the jungle, should have a panoramic view of the arena, but Finnick doubts she’ll see much of anything but impenetrable green surrounding the rings of beach and water and the island of the Cornucopia.

“Do you think she’ll see any fresh water?” Peeta asks.

Mags snorts. “Bloodbath.”

“Mags is right.” Finnick glances over at Peeta and then back to his sector of jungle. “All she’ll see is fighting at the Cornucopia.” In the history of the Games, there’s never _not_ been wholesale slaughter at the start and Finnick doesn’t see why this time would be any different. They’ve all killed to stay alive before today and none of them actively wants to die. The chain of solidarity among the victors-turned-tributes on the night of the interviews was a fluke. They’re not all rebels working to overthrow the government of Panem; a good number of them don’t even know that’s a possibility. “I wonder how many of us are already dead.” He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Johanna is one of them.

“But you all seem to be friends,” Peeta says and then laughs. “Sorry. I know that sounds naïve.” Finnick feels Mags shift and he turns his head in time to see her stroke Peeta’s hair. Finnick bends forward, lifts a length of vine from the ground near his right ankle and cuts it off with his knife. Leaning back against the rock once more, he starts to work the supple vine into a simple bowline knot.

“We’re not all friends,” he tells Peeta and then laughs himself, short and sharp. “We’re more like some kind of fucked up family.” _Which just makes this that much harder._ He thinks about Gloss and Cashmere, about Enobaria who once told him he’s the only good thing to come out of District 4 because he makes her laugh. He thinks about Johanna. Smiling ruefully, he mutters, “A slightly incestuous family.” He doesn’t know if Peeta heard him but Mags did; she swats him in the back of the head.

“Behave.”

Finnick grins at her over his shoulder and then turns back toward Peeta. “I’m not sure any of that counts for much in here,” he continues, a little louder. “I don’t know about you, Peeta, but I don’t want to die.” He thinks of Annie and the promises they made, wonders if she’s even still alive after what happened early that morning.

 _Of course she’s alive_ , he tells himself, but the thought isn’t a happy one. Snow will keep her alive for only so long as he has a use for her. And with more than half his popular victors in this arena, he has a use for her. Feeling sick, Finnick makes sure a trident is within easy reach. He pulls the vine in his hands tight, destroying the knot he made, and begins to work another as they wait for Katniss to return.

“Él no hará daño… Annie.” Mags lays her hand on Finnick’s head. “Y Johanna es fuerte.” His fingers still on a half-formed cat’s paw. He translates her words – _He won’t hurt Annie. And Johanna is strong._ – and answers her in kind without even thinking about it.

“Él hará daño a ella, Mags. Él ya tiene.” _He will hurt her, Mags. He already has._ Worried as he is about Annie, Finnick can’t even think about Johanna right now. Yes, she’s strong. She also has a temper and a stubborn streak a mile wide and the last time he saw her she was itching for a fight.

Peeta shifts to look at both Finnick and Mags. “What are you saying?” the younger man asks. “I can't understand you.”

Finnick doesn’t answer, instead standing as Katniss lowers herself from the tree. Katniss’ body is as taut as her bowstring when she bends to take up her weapons and Finnick does the same. The expression on her face as she looks at him, not at Mags or Peeta, just him, confirms his suspicions and he tightens his grip on the trident. He won’t kill her. He won’t. He made a promise to do everything he can to keep both Katniss and Peeta alive for as long as he’s able and he won’t back out on that promise. But he won’t let her kill him, either, and he didn’t promise not to hurt her. Finnick doesn’t look away from Katniss, knowing that he’ll see her intention reflected in her eyes before she makes any move toward him.

xXx

Annie sits beside Martin at the District 4 controls. Just like everyone else in the room, she wears a headset that keeps her conversations with Martin or the gift fulfillment center or prospective sponsors from disturbing the other mentors. The 24 screens that line the control room walls focus on the individual tributes, showing their current situations via visual feed. Smaller screens on the control console show their coordinates and vital signs, something both Martin and Haymitch explained to Annie days ago, but that she hadn’t seen at work until now. Four of the wall screens are dark, the tributes they monitored dead.

The bloodbath continues at the Cornucopia, but things are quiet for Districts 4 and 12 since they decided not to participate, so Annie catches up on what happened while she showered and dressed. She fast forwards through much of it, only playing at normal speed those scenes that catch her eye. Most of these involve Finnick.

 _“It’s like it was designed for you,”_ Katniss tells Finnick onscreen, her voice bitter. The salt water, the sun and sand… Annie thinks that might be true. It gives her hope. If the arena is like District 4, then Finnick has a better chance of coming home.

 _“Lucky thing we’re allies, right?”_ On the little screen, Katniss has an arrow set to a bowstring at nearly full draw, ready to let it fly at Finnick’s heart and Finnick raises his trident like he means to use it. But then the girl from 12 hesitates and Annie pauses the playback, zooms in where Katniss’ eyes focus: a glint of gold at Finnick’s wrist. Haymitch's bracelet.

Annie swivels her chair toward the opposite side of the room, toward Haymitch at his station near the door. He watches more or less the same feeds as Martin, since their tributes are together, climbing through the jungle toward higher ground.

The woman to Haymitch’s left stands abruptly, her chair rattling backward on its wheels. Even through the sound dampeners in her headset, Annie can hear her wordless cry. The screens she monitors both show fights: a dark-skinned man with one hand has a man who looks like Gloss in a headlock while Seeder blocks a blow from a spiked club. There’s a flash of silver and Gloss sinks a knife into the dark man’s thigh. Ignoring the blade protruding from his leg, the man kicks Gloss away from him and runs. He appears a moment later in the feed that shows Seeder. He pulls the knife from his thigh and charges Enobaria, standing over Seeder. Enobaria swings her club at Seeder’s head and the screen goes to snowy static just before it goes dark.

Annie closes her eyes and turns back to her own screen. Blinking away tears, she releases the pause and zoom and the picture and sound return to normal as Finnick shouts, _“Duck!”_ and sends his trident flying over Katniss’ head into the chest of the man Haymitch called Hamilton. _Crap timing_ , Annie thinks to herself with a bitten off whimper and fast forwards through that, not wanting to watch the man die a second time.

In a blur of motion, Katniss shoots at Enobaria and then Gloss, driving them both back into the water, Gloss with an arrow in his calf, and Annie reminds herself that what she’s seeing now happened more than an hour ago. Her head spins with the back and forth of real time and play back. She slows things down again to watch Finnick dive into the water and swim toward Peeta, to watch Mags jump from her platform to dog paddle toward Katniss, then fast forwards through the four of them distributing the weapons Finnick and Katniss collected at the Cornucopia, continues to speed through it as they walk at triple time into the jungle.

Her feed catches up and slows to real time just as Finnick kneels over a fallen Peeta and breathes into his mouth. Katniss raises her bow and points an arrow at Finnick’s back and Annie shoots up from her chair. “No!” she shouts at the same time Haymitch says to his console, “Shit, girl. Don’t be a fool.”

xXx

Another mile uphill, searching for the crest, for an end, Peeta still in the lead, slicing and hacking at vines. Everything looks exactly the same as it did an hour ago, two hours ago. Finnick concentrates on simply putting one foot in front of the other, on stepping over more vines over rocks over fallen leaves with stalks like branches. Mags weighs next to nothing, but even her slight body seems to grow heavier as the day grows hotter, the air thicker with humidity and the scent of green and dying things. She long since gave up even the pretense of hanging onto his neck and shoulders.

Following the tense standoff between Finnick and Katniss a half hour or so before, which Peeta defused by stepping between them and not moving away until they lowered their weapons, the younger man had helped to secure Mags to Finnick’s back with the net and some vines. Once Mags was more or less secure, they had started through the jungle again.

The heat and humidity, the exertion all combine to suck the moisture from Finnick’s body. Sweat covers him, making the thin material of his jumpsuit adhere to his skin, and there is no breeze, cooling or otherwise, to wick any of it away, sweat or heat. But the increasing physical discomfort and fatigue are nothing compared to his ever-growing thirst. It’s getting to the point that all he can think about is water, cold water to drink, cooling water to dive into. The waves they left behind a few miles downhill beckon, an almost audible siren song. It takes him a minute to realize that the almost sound is Mags’ strained breathing.

“You okay, Mags?” He turns his head, blinking sweat from his eyes as he tries to focus on her. Her skin is shiny and has an unhealthy grayish tinge.

A few feet behind him, Katniss shouts, “Wait!” There’s a loud crack and the jungle surrounding them disappears in a fluid, almost three-dimensional static, immediately followed by a clear view of rocky and barren earth, waves of heat rising from it, and cloudless blue sky overhead. Before Finnick can react, something heavy flies backward into him with enough force to knock him off his feet. He twists in an attempt to save Mags from injury, but there’s only so much he can do. He lands heavily, rolling to his side as she cries out in pain. The brief and unexpected glimpse of the world outside the arena is gone.

Katniss runs past Finnick and Mags and slides to a stop beside Peeta, who lies motionless on the ground. She checks him for breath and for a heartbeat as Finnick untangles himself as quickly as he can from net and vines and Mags. He has to cut the vines to release her and she grabs at a nearby tree, using it to pull herself to her feet and to stay steady.

“Go, boy.” She nods toward Katniss and the fallen Peeta as Katniss screams Peeta’s name. She kneels over Peeta’s prone body, shaking him, her weapons abandoned on the ground a few feet away.

Finnick pushes Katniss aside. “Let me.” He doesn’t wait for her to respond. After confirming that Peeta isn’t breathing, he checks him for any obvious injuries and, finding none, pinches his nostrils shut. Taking a deep breath of his own to start breathing for Peeta, Finnick blows air into Peeta's mouth to expand his lungs, but suddenly Katniss is on him, shouting “No!” Finnick reacts instinctively, lifting an arm to block her. The heel of his hand takes her in the chest and sends her flying.

From that moment on, Finnick ignores Katniss as much as he can. The time to calm her, to allay her fears is a luxury they don’t have. As he works on Peeta, a part of him is well aware that Katniss has an arrow trained on his back, on his heart, that she’s ready to let it fly, not quite understanding yet that he’s trying to save Peeta’s life. Her hesitation tells him that she’s at least thinking about it. He has to hope that’s enough.

Finnick breathes for Peeta twice more, then unzips the younger man's jumpsuit and starts chest compressions. He did this successfully once before, when his Uncle Corin took a jolt of electricity from a broken generator during a storm at sea.

As he alternates between breaths and compressions, Katniss slowly relaxes her killing stance and allows her arrow to dip toward the ground. She comes closer until she’s kneeling beside Finnick as he works, watching him intently but staying out of his way. Suddenly Peeta coughs. His eyes open and Finnick backs off as Katniss flings herself at Peeta, her hands running over every inch of his body, checking for damage, checking for a pulse.

Frowning, Finnick watches her, the tears streaming unchecked and unnoticed down her face. Her terror earlier was no act and neither is her relief now. He doesn’t suppose it makes a difference in the long run, but it’s good to know that she really does care, that their on-screen romance isn't all just an act.

xXx

Two different angles on four separate screens show Finnick’s attempt to resuscitate Peeta. When Katniss releases the tension on her bowstring, Annie slumps backward in her chair and buries her face in her hands, but only for a moment. She forces herself to stop hiding. It doesn’t matter how much she wants to retreat into herself, to escape, she has to stay with Finnick, even if she can’t do anything to help him. If he dies while she’s curled into a ball on the floor, she’ll never forgive herself.

Annie lowers her hands. On screen, Mags watches Finnick and Katniss from her place against a tree, as helpless to affect the outcome as Annie; a quick glance at her vital signs on Martin’s console shows Mags’ elevated pulse and respiration. Katniss lowers her bow and takes a step toward Finnick and Peeta and then another until she’s close enough to drop to her knees beside Finnick. Peeta coughs and Finnick rocks back on his heels. Katniss throws herself at Peeta, ignoring Finnick, and Annie can breathe again. Finnick watches the pair for a moment and then rolls to his feet. He walks over to Mags, sits down beside her and his pulse on Annie’s monitor begins to slow to something closer to normal.

The immediate danger past, Annie, still shaky, stands and walks out of the control room, descending the stairs to the victors' lounge for a glass of ice water. On the big screen an old man is cut down by Cashmere just as he reaches the Cornucopia. He never had a chance. Cecelia pulls a sword from the pile of weapons and charges Cashmere, swinging at the other woman’s head. Annie quickly turns away and takes her water back to the control room, but the sounds of metal clashing against metal follow her. One of the other mentors shouts, “Celia, watch out!” and when Annie reaches the top of the stairs, she can’t stop herself from turning to look again at the television below.

Cecelia barely blocks a vicious blow from Cashmere’s shorter, heavier blade and quickly counters with a thrust that Cashmere deflects, but not before the point of Cecelia’s blade pierces Cashmere’s yellow belt, sending a fountain of purple spurting over Cecelia’s hand. Her blade slips and Cashmere takes advantage of the opportunity with a killing blow that takes off Cecelia’s left arm and continues, lodging halfway through her torso. Annie gasps as red blood combines with purple chemical to form a macabre and random pattern over the blue of Cecelia’s jumpsuit. The camera pushes in for a close up of her shocked face as the light leaves her eyes and she falls, pulling the sword from Cashmere’s hand.

“Oh, no.” Blinded by tears, Annie stumbles backward into the control room. She half runs back to her chair and drops into it. She doesn’t see the monitor in front of her, the walls of monitors or the other mentors surrounding her. All she sees is Cecelia, laughing with her oldest daughter as the two of them each take one of Annie’s hands and lead her on a tour of the main fabric mill in District 8, one of the few good memories of Annie’s Victory Tour.

When Annie has her emotions under control again, ignoring Martin’s concerned glances her way, she wipes her eyes and focuses on Finnick’s monitor. His vital signs are all well within normal parameters now as the 4/12 alliance again climbs slowly through the jungle. Katniss leads, tossing nuts ahead of her as she goes, followed by Peeta and then Mags, both of whom walk with the aid of long sticks stripped of branches and leaves. Finnick brings up the rear.

As they walk, there’s an occasional puff of smoke and a blackened nut flies back at the group. When that happens, Katniss changes their course by a degree or two. Behind her, Mags gathers up the nuts, catching the ones that come close enough to her hand or stooping with the aid of her makeshift cane to pick them up from the ground. Once they’re in her hands, she peels them and tosses them into the air to catch them in her mouth. She offers some to Finnick, walking only a couple of steps behind her.

“Do you really think you should be eating those, Mags?” Finnick asks her. Annie hears him clearly over her headset, but she can’t make out Mags’ reply. Finnick laughs at whatever she said, though; the sound of it calms Annie as nothing else could. On her screen, she sees the welcome sight of his grin as he tells a concerned Katniss that Mags recognizes the nuts from a previous Games.

Martin leans toward Annie and taps the back of her hand to get her attention. “Why don’t you head back and get some rest? I’ll have someone wake you in a few hours and you can take over.”

“I don’t know…” She doesn’t think she can sleep and she doesn’t want to leave the control room where she can at least see and hear Finnick, no matter how far away he is. Looking around the control room, she sees that there’s only one mentor present at each station. The violence at the Cornucopia is still going on, though only a handful of combatants remain; the others are either dead, their monitors dark or, like Finnick and his group, they already cleared out and moved off into the jungle.

“Go on, Annie. You look like you’re about to drop.” There is both sympathy and amusement in his voice and in his eyes.

“Alright, Martin, but promise you’ll send someone for me if anything happens.” He nods.

“If you’d rather stay close, Annie, you can use the sleeping room off the lounge. Or if you don't want to be alone, you could always sleep in the lounge itself, but…” He stops with a shrug; Annie doesn’t need him to continue. The big television in the victors' lounge is always on and there are usually people there, so she’ll have to listen to the broadcast and to the other mentors and victors as they discuss it. Not ideal conditions in which to rest. Even in the sleeping room, the walls are thin and don't muffle much of the sound from the lounge.

Still uncertain, she heads down the stairs. Watt and Shale, the other mentor from District 2, are sitting on a couch watching the live broadcast of the Games. The one-handed man from earlier wades in between two women fighting near the water. Without hesitation, he draws a long knife and sends it into the younger woman’s neck under her jaw and up into her brain, killing her instantly. Returning the knife to his belt, he picks up the other woman, in her sixties at least and emaciated, her skin yellowish against the blue of her jumpsuit and carries her across a spit of land, away from the fighting.

 _“Well that’s certainly unexpected,”_ an announcer says. _“It appears that Chaff of District Eleven might have an alliance in these Games with Linna of District Six.”_

The elevator doors cut off the sight and sound of the Games and Annie leans back against the glass wall, relieved. When they open again, she hurries back to the fourth floor of the Training Center. No one else is there and the suite is unsettlingly quiet. She goes to the room she and Finnick shared, all but collapsing onto the bed, and almost as soon as her head hits Finnick’s pillow, she’s asleep.


	24. Won't Let You Fall Apart

**Chapter Twenty-Four – Won’t Let You Fall Apart**

By mid-afternoon, Mags and Peeta are both pretty much done in. Even with the cane Finnick fashioned for her, the walking stick he cut for Peeta, Mags stumbles with almost every step and Peeta, red in the face and having trouble breathing, clings to the stick like it’s the only thing holding him upright, which may be the literal truth. When they come across a small clearing far enough away from the force field to not accidentally stumble into it, but close enough for them to use it as a weapon if they need to, Finnick calls for a stop.

“Let’s set up camp here,” he suggests with a pointed look at Mags and Peeta when Katniss backtracks to join them. “I think we could all use the rest and we have the force field for protection. If anybody attacks, we can throw ‘em into it.” Katniss looks at the other two and must see how wiped out they both are. She turns around in place, assessing the clearing’s defensibility.

With a nod she says, “This is as good a spot as any, since we haven’t found a water source.”

“No cannons yet, so they’re not done killing each other at the Cornucopia.” Finnick sets his weapons down at the base of a tree on the edge of the clearing, wishing Katniss hadn’t mentioned water. “If we stay here and rest, we’ll have an advantage if we have to fight later.”

Mags stumps over with her cane and stretches up to kiss Finnick on the cheek. She whispers “Thank you” before heading slowly toward a shock of grass, a good five feet tall, growing at the far edge of the clearing. She studies it for a moment and then starts tugging at the grasses, trying to pull them up or break them off, but they resist her efforts. Peeta offers her the use of his knife and she saws at the blades near to the ground, but it’s difficult for her to cut through the tough fibers. The knife slips from her fingers a couple of times and Peeta moves to help her.

Kneeling beside Mags, Peeta overbalances, catching himself before he falls, but losing hold of the knife.

"Fine pair," Mags says, laughing. She offers Peeta his knife.

"Keep it. I think I'll go look for something edible."

"Nuts," Mags tells him and gives him a thumbs up gesture. Shaking his head ruefully, Peeta nods and steps away from her to start collecting nuts just inside the jungle, leaving Mags to continue harvesting grass by herself using Peeta’s knife. Setting her back against a tree, she slides down to the ground and, with the elevation change, seems to have an easier time cutting.

Still watching Peeta and Mags, Finnick says to Katniss, “Water’s going to be a real problem before too much longer.” Growing thirst is taking a toll on them all. It’s getting hard for him to make simple decisions, to even think, and it’s obviously having an effect on Mags and Peeta, both of whom are far from their physical peak at the moment. Katniss seems to be the least affected; Finnick chalks that up to her youth and a lack of either injury or years of Capitol excesses.

“I know,” Katniss responds, frustrated. “There’s water in here somewhere. We just have to find it.”

Still cutting grasses, Mags nicks her thumb and Finnick sees the blood well from where he stands with Katniss. Frowning, the old woman looks at the wound blankly for a couple of seconds, then sticks her thumb into her mouth. With a glance at Katniss, Finnick hurries over to Mags, almost envying his former mentor the moisture against her tongue.

Keeping his voice light, he says, “Damn it, Mags, I can’t take you anywhere.” She grins at him around her thumb and gestures with her knife-wielding hand toward the branches of one of the trees. He looks but doesn’t see anything of note there. To his left and a little behind, he sees Katniss drawing a line in the sandy dirt near the force field. _Good thinking._

“Moss,” Mags says without taking her injured thumb from her mouth and Finnick looks up again, spots the soft grayish green that covers most of the branches about halfway up the tree. Standing, he reaches for a handful of it, pulling the moss away from the bark in tangled strands. He trades with Mags, moss for knife, and helps her to wrap the moss around her thumb, tying it in place with one of the shorter, narrower blades of grass. The spongy fibers seem to absorb the blood and, as far as Finnick can tell, stop the flow.

“From _my_ Games,” Mags tells him. Checking his work to make sure the crude bandage is secure around her thumb, she waves her other hand at Finnick. “Cortar, boy. Tejemos después.” _You cut, boy. We’ll weave after._ Mags hands him Peeta’s knife.

And so Finnick collects grasses under Mags’ supervision and Peeta gathers nuts while Katniss walks the perimeter of their camp. After a while, Peeta starts tossing the nuts into the force field, which sends them back blackened and smoking. He builds a tower out of them before heading back to the edge of the clearing to collect more. Mags watches him for a couple of minutes, nodding her approval, and then begins weaving the five-foot blades of grass she and Finnick collected into a flexible mat. She’s working on a second mat when Finnick cuts down the last of the grass and drops to the ground across from her to weave a mat of his own.

With everyone else busy at some self-appointed task, Katniss announces that she’s going to scout for water and whatever she can find to supplement the nuts for dinner, leaving Finnick to guard. Making sure his tridents are close at hand, Finnick waves her on and continues weaving. The mat he’s working on should be tight enough to be water-tight.

Mags points at his mat. “Roof?”

He looks up from the field of green. “Yeah. I can use some of the vines to lash it between the trees. Give us sort of a lean-to, if nothing else.” The old woman nods and begins to weave two of her mats together with one of the thinner blades of grass.

“Floor,” she tells him.

Peeta rejoins them, adding more cooked nuts to his tower. He lays out an enormous leaf, heart-shaped, at least a foot across and twice as wide, and sits on the ground facing tower and leaf, Finnick and Mags.

“What was that you said to each other earlier?” he asks as he shells nuts, discarding the burned shells on the ground and placing the meats on the leaf to keep them from the sandy dirt. “I couldn’t understand any of it.” There is suspicion in his voice and Finnick sees in the younger man’s eyes that he’s trying hard to fight encroaching distrust.

“We weren’t trying to keep secrets, Peeta,” Finnick assures him as he continues to weave. “It was the language Mags grew up with. Castellan. Since her stroke, it’s sometimes easier for her to speak it.” Mags nods and smiles, reaches over to pat Peeta on the knee.

Peeta simultaneously frowns and raises one eyebrow. “You have a separate language in Four?”

Finnick grins wryly at Mags. “Not really. Not anymore. It’s technically treason to speak it, but some of the old ones still do.”

Peeta laughs. “Unless I’m missing something,” he says to Finnick, “you’re not that much older than I am.”

Mags hoots at that. Finnick smiles and shrugs, continues weaving. He’s pretty sure he has at least a thousand years on Peeta Mellark. “Mags used to babysit me when I was small, right up until I was old enough that my parents would let me fend for myself after school. It amused her to teach me to speak it with her.” He shoots Mags a look. “I’m pretty sure she did the same thing with my dad and my uncles when they were kids.” Mags just raises her brows, neither confirming nor denying that speculation, but the way her eyes dance, Finnick is sure of it.

“So what were you talking about, if not some secret plot to kill Katniss and me in our sleep?”

Finnick’s fingers still and he looks at Peeta, debating what to tell him. Keeping secrets has become almost second nature to Finnick. Does Peeta – and by extension all of Panem – really need to know anything about Annie? Keeping her a secret has been a matter of survival for them both for years, but looking into those expectant blue eyes, Finnick thinks maybe it could help the citizens of the Capitol to see them all as human beings. Force them to understand that more lives and loves will be lost with these Games than just Katniss and Peeta, the “star-crossed lovers” of District 12. Still leaning against her tree, Mags nods at Finnick, silently mouths Annie’s name.

“Mags reassured me that my fiancée would be okay,” Finnick tells Peeta, picking his words carefully, “and that Johanna can take care of herself.” He doesn’t think it’s important to tell Peeta that he disagreed with the first part.

Peeta’s eyes widen. “Your fiancée? _You’re_ getting _married_?”

“Whether or not that actually happens hasn’t been determined yet,” Finnick responds dryly with a wave of his arm, indicating not just the arena but all the other things that stand between him and Annie and the freedom to live their lives.

Peeta mostly chooses to ignore the depressing aspect of Finnick’s news. The younger man shakes his head, a bemused smile on his face when he says, “That is not what I expected.”

“What?” Finnick asks, more amused by Peeta’s reaction than offended. “A slut like me can’t settle down with just one person?” Peeta’s face, already red from the sun, turns a brighter red and Finnick grins at him, pokes at his face with a blade of grass that Peeta bats away. Finnick laughs and the boy relaxes.

“What’s she like?” he asks.

At Peeta’s question, a million images of Annie Cresta fill Finnick’s mind. Laughing, dancing, hiding behind her hair or her hands, collecting shells on the beach, biting her lower lip to keep from laughing or to keep from crying out, sometimes in fear, more often in pleasure. Peeta and Mags both watch Finnick as he works through what to say and he can only hope that Annie is there to hear it, too.

“Annie’s like…” Finnick closes his eyes, the better to hold onto the images. “She’s like swimming into a dark cave only to find a shaft of sunlight slicing down through the water, illuminating all the colors of the coral and the fish, and realizing that no earth-bound rainbow could ever compare.”

Finnick had thought Annie a pretty girl from the very first, someone he would have been interested in getting to know, if his life had gone differently, but it wasn’t until he spoke to her that first time that he started to understand how unforgettable she really was. At least to him.

It was early in the morning after the reaping and he hadn’t been to sleep yet, had only just returned to the Training Center after a pretty wild night. He stopped first to talk to Angel about their tributes and then gone to see Annie, to introduce himself and maybe learn a little about her as a person so they could work on a strategy for her. That was the part of mentoring that he hated the most, getting to know the tributes. It would be so much easier if he knew nothing about them at all, not their likes and dislikes or even their strengths and weaknesses. It was bad enough just knowing their names.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a reaping where the Peacekeepers had to chase a _volunteer_ down before,” Finnick remarked, leaning against the doorjamb in the open doorway of his tribute’s room. He smiled when he said it, remembering the shocked looks of those on stage with him when she bolted, but Annie didn’t see his smile. She sat in the center of the bed, staring down at her restless fingers, long legs folded under her as she picked at the bedspread.

“I would have come back.” She didn’t look up.

“Are you sure about that?” He pushed off the jamb and walked into the room, stopped a couple of feet from the bed. She looked up at him then, a slightly offended expression on her face.

“Of course I would have. It’s just…” She looked back down. “I saw my gran in the crowd and the way she looked at me.” With the palm of her hand she smoothed the picked-at section of bedspread. “It made me realize what I’d done.”

“Do you do that sort of thing often?” He couldn’t see her face from that angle, just the top of her head. Her dark hair, shot through with gold streaks from days spent in the sun, hung in a long tail that spread out over her shoulders and back.

She sighed. When she looked up at him again there was an impish light in her green eyes. “Do what? Volunteer for the Games?”

“Ha! No.” Still half smiling, he sat on the edge of the bed facing her, one foot on the floor, his other leg crossed in front of him. “Act before you think.”

The ghost of a smile played around her lips. “I suppose I do. Gran’s always telling me, ‘Think, girl!’ I guess I should have listened.” The amusement faded from her eyes, her voice, the ghostly smile retreated and she went back to picking at the bedspread. "Now it's too late." Finnick found that he wanted to bring that light back, but pushed the thought away. That was dangerous territory.

He took the opportunity then to study Annie. He hadn’t gotten the chance at her reaping. While a pair of Peacekeepers chased down their wayward tribute, the hovercraft had arrived to take him to the Capitol and more Peacekeepers ushered the rest of the District 4 party into the Justice Building. Once in the Capitol, he was only with his client for a couple of hours, but afterward, instead of going back to the Training Center to meet the others, he’d gone to the Abyss and met a girl. Last year’s victor, Johanna Mason. He pushed the memory of Johanna away and forced himself to focus on the cipher that was Anwyn Cresta.

The girl was good looking enough to catch the collective eye of the Capitol and unexpected enough for them to remember her. He could work with that in regard to sponsors. He knew nothing about the boy other than that he, too, had volunteered when he shouldn’t have and that Angel was not impressed. They’d already discussed that pretty Annie was the one they should concentrate on, the one who might have a chance.

Thin, but not too thin, Annie had good muscle definition in her arms. Probably a swimmer. Long legs folded under her, disguising their length; he had seen for himself that she could run. His smile widened at the memory of the Peacekeepers’ consternation before they chased after her, giving her a few seconds’ head start. Finnick was already gone by the time the Peacekeepers returned to the Justice Building, Annie in tow, but Angel told him she made it all the way to the beach near the public docks and that one of the Peacekeepers had gone into the water after her. Annie had ended up helping the man get back to shore when she realized the overzealous idiot couldn’t swim.

“I wish I hadn’t done it. Volunteered.” _Well, no shit_ , Finnick thought. _No one in their right mind volunteers out of the blue like that._ But this girl had and he wanted to know why. He read her file on the hovercraft from 4 to the Capitol. She wasn’t one of the candidates chosen to volunteer, the ones who received more intensive training once school let out for the day, although her scores were high enough to qualify. “I’m all Gran has. I don’t know what she’s going to do when I’m gone.”

Finnick frowned. _That might explain why she wasn’t a candidate._ “No other family?”

“When I was little, it was just me and my mom and Gran. And then Mom died at sea when I was eight and it was just me and Gran. My dad comes around sometimes, but he never stays. And he’s not related to Gran, anyway, not her family. He’s barely even mine.” Finnick made a mental note to call home and have someone check on Annie’s grandmother. His own parents would be happy to take her in, if need be, at least for the duration of the Games.

“Don’t worry about your gran, Annie,” he said. “I’ll make sure she’s taken care of.” He swung his other leg up onto the bed and turned to more fully face her, folded his own legs to mirror the way she sat.

“When I’m gone.” She looked up again, met his gaze with her own. Her green eyes were steady, focused on his, bracing herself for the worst. There was a ring of blue around the outsides of her irises.

“That’s the second time you’ve said that, ‘when I’m gone.’”

Annie shrugged. “Well, it’s not like I’m going to win.”

“Not if you’ve already written yourself off.” He was surprised at the anger he felt toward her for giving up without a fight. Annie blinked twice and frowned, her head canted to one side.

“Do you think I have a chance?” There was something just short of disbelief in her voice.

“Yeah, Annie, I do.”

“Why? You don’t know anything about me. I’m not even a Career, just a stupid girl who volunteered and can’t take it back.”

He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands as he studied her again. “You may not be a Career, Annie, but then neither was I. And I do know a little something about you.”

“Oh, really?” Looking unconvinced, she drew her knees up and put her arms around them, her legs crossed at the ankles. “So tell me, Mr. Know It All. What do you know about me? What am I like?”

“Well, for one thing, Miss Skeptical, I know you’re impulsive.” She rolled her eyes at that and Finnick grinned at her again. “You’re not stupid. You _are_ compassionate and, I think, empathetic. Creative. Friendly enough, if not necessarily outgoing. Loyal.”

“I sound like a Golden Retriever.” Her eyes seemed to dance with suppressed laughter as she bit her lower lip.

“You’re smarter than you look.” She stuck her tongue out at him and he forced himself to look away from her mouth. “You’re a swimmer. You have a tendency to do the right thing, but we definitely need to work on your self-preservation instincts. They’re there, but they kind of get lost in your impulse control issues.”

She mouthed “impulse control issues?” and pointed at her own chest. “You know all that just from looking at me?”

He smirked at her. “Baby, I am just that good.” The words spilled out and he tried hard not to cringe. _Shit, Odair! Do_ not _flirt with the tributes. Especially not_ your _tribute!_ Trying to cover up his embarrassment, he continued, “Or I might have read your file.” One fine, golden-brown eyebrow rose.

“I have a file?”

“Of course you have a file. Everyone in school has a file.” The other brow joined the first.

“Can I see it?” Finnick almost choked on another laugh.

The sharp report of a cannon wrenches him from the memory. The harsh sound repeats eight times. Eight lives snuffed out. Eight of his fellow tributes dead, fully one quarter in just the first few hours of the Games. The number isn’t unprecedented, but still it hits hard. Even if Finnick doesn’t know all of them well, he does know them all, and there are a few whose loss will leave a gaping hole inside him. Mags winces with each resounding boom and he knows she feels their loss even more deeply. It’ll be hours yet before they even know who to mourn.

xXx

Rough hands pull her from sleep, fingers digging into her arms, pinpoints of pain. Annie opens her eyes. She is surrounded by a brilliant golden glow, growing brighter and brighter, blinding her. She falls to her knees, slips further, catches herself on the heels of her hands in the scorching sand.

A clash of metal on metal rings out, vibrates through her whole body and Finnick shouts “Duck!” But before she can respond to his shout – meant for someone else, anyway – a pale hand reaches to help her to her feet and she looks up into the watery blue eyes of President Snow. He smiles and flecks of dried blood flake from his teeth, ashes and dust. She scrambles away from him, but his laughter follows her. She runs, heart pounding in her chest, lungs sucking in copper-tainted air, sickeningly sweet. She runs faster, desperate to escape Snow’s harsh laugh, but there’s nowhere she can hide.

She runs up a path through the jungle, jumping over rocks and vines. Only a few feet ahead a sword swings toward her – she can’t see who wields it – and a trident blocks it across her path. She slides under the sharp and glittering arch half a second before the sword forces the trident aside, comes crashing down to cleave the sandy dirt she just left. “Don’t be stupid, girl!” Haymitch shouts and Annie rolls, springs to her feet and turns toward the sound of his voice in time to see Katniss draw back an arrow aimed at Finnick’s heart where he stands, trident in hand. Finnick looks at Katniss and his eyes focus on the mockingjay pin on the collar of her jumpsuit. He smiles and stretches his arms wide.

“Lucky thing we’re allies, right?” he says and Katniss lets her arrow fly.

“NO, Finnick! You can’t die!” Annie screams and launches herself at Finnick, but she pulls up short. She struggles against the web that holds her back, but she can’t break free.

Annie wakes, her heart pounding. She sits up, her shirt tugging at her arms and twisting around her waist. Still anxious from the dream, frustrated, she yanks the shirt over her head and flings it across the bedroom to land behind the chair in the corner.

Feeling a little calmer, she looks around the quiet room. There is still sunlight outside the window and she glances over at the clock on the table. 4:13. She slept for a little over three hours. Leaning forward, she hides her head beneath her arms, her forehead against the silky bedspread, and tries to recall what she dreamed. Her heart rate slowly returns to normal as she chases after the wisps, but they slip further away until all that remains for her to hold onto is that Finnick might sacrifice himself if she isn’t there to stop it.

She straightens and her hands fall to her lap. She doesn’t want to be away from the control room for this long again. She wouldn’t want it even if the signal for the headsets would reach this far, but the targeted feed that allows her to hear what’s going on with Finnick cuts off beyond the floor that houses the control room. And if she _could_ hear it here in the Training Center, it would still be only a little better than nothing, because sometimes the bad things that happen are purely visual until it’s too late. Annie shudders and swings her legs over the side of the bed.

She sits there for a couple of minutes and tries to center herself by focusing on something good, anything to keep her grounded here, where she needs to be, but she there is nothing. All she can think about is Finnick in the arena. She fights against the siren song of the sea, the waves that always seem to be just beneath the surface in this place, trying to pull her back under where she doesn’t have to be strong, can just float and float until she floats away. She feels it pulling at her, the undertow of the arena, closer here than it ever was back home, more seductive. Finnick isn’t here to help her fight it; Snow took him away.

Finnick. She promised Finnick a lifetime ago, it seems, that she would do her best to go on without him, if she had to. And he promised her another lifetime before that that he would bring her home. Annie stands. “You never gave up on me,” she says aloud to the empty room. “I won’t give up on you.”

She pulls a fresh shirt from the dresser and pulls it on. Then it takes her a few seconds to find her shoes – one of them slipped under the bed when she took them off earlier to lie down – but she returns to the mentor’s control room as quickly as she can. When she slides into her seat beside Martin and pulls on her headset, he glances at her and nods a greeting, then turns back to his screen. Annie’s headset hums in her ears as it comes back to life.

“If you want to take a nap, Martin, you can,” she says into the microphone pickup.

“Nah. I’m still good for a while longer. Nothing much happened after you left.”

On her screen, the four allies are eating a dinner of some sort of roasted meat and Mags’ nuts. They’re on the edge of a clearing in the jungle, sitting on the ground in front of a crude hut fashioned of… something green; Annie can’t quite tell what, but it looks big enough that all four of them could sleep inside it. They’re eating from bowls of the same stuff, whatever it is.

“Not much happened?” Martin looks over at her, eyebrows raised in question. “They built a _house_. They have _dishes_.” Martin laughs.

“Mags took her frustration out on a stand of really tall grass.” Half smiling, Annie turns back to her monitor, wonders if it’s worth it to back things up and watch them build the hut. She watches as they eat their simple meal and her stomach growls. Apparently, it’s louder than she thought, loud enough to hear through the headsets, because both Martin and Rae, sitting to her left, look at her.

“When’s the last time you ate, Annie?” Martin asks.

“You need to eat as well as sleep, child,” Rae admonishes. “You can order food down in the lounge, if you don’t want to walk all that way over to the Training Center.” Annie looks at the older woman sharply at the note of sarcasm in her tone, but then Rae winks at her, taking the sting from it.

Martin laughs again and stands. “Leave her alone, Rae. She’s new at this.” He squeezes Annie’s shoulder as he moves past her toward the door. “I’ll grab us both something to eat.” The door closes behind him and Annie turns back to her monitor.

 _“So nothing obvious like a pond or a stream,”_ Finnick is saying, part of an ongoing conversation between him and Katniss. _“Where else do you find water?”_

_“There’s a lot of water downhill from here.”_

Mags throws a nut at Peeta. _“Can’t drink.”_

Peeta laughs. _“But it_ is _water.”_

Katniss swallows a bite of meat. _“If the tree rat found it, we can find it.”_

Finnick picks up a cube of meat. _“Which brings us back to where.”_ He pops the meat into his mouth and slowly chews. Annie can practically feel the gumminess imparted to the meat by the lack of moisture, just from the way the muscles in his jaws work and the effort he makes to swallow.

Martin returns with a tray bearing wrapped sandwiches and water, setting it on the clear space between their controls. He sits and picks up a sandwich, turning back to his monitor.

“Do _we_ know where the water is?” Annie asks Martin. He shakes his head as she peels back the wrapping from a cheese sandwich and takes a bite.

“No. Too much of an advantage. If the Gamemakers didn’t want it to be a part of the Games, they would’ve made it easier to find.”

“Can we send them water?” She eyes her glass, feeling a little guilty.

Martin shakes his head. “It’s not practical. Water would give them a huge advantage in this arena. The greater the advantage, the more expensive the gift. Sending them even a little would exhaust what we have in the coffers so far, and there’s no guarantee there’ll be any more funds coming in.”

She looks at her screen again as Finnick asks, _“So what was our dinner doing before you shot it?”_

Beside her, Martin’s eyes flicker down from the monitor to the control console and back up again. He stands and turns toward the other side of the room. Wadding up the wrapper from his sandwich, he throws it at Haymitch, who paces beside his console, seemingly lost in thought. The wad hits him in the back of the head and he stops in his tracks, turning toward Martin and Annie with a scowl. Martin motions him toward the door and takes Annie by the hand, leading her out of the room behind Haymitch.

Once in the hallway, Haymitch asks, “What’s up?”

Martin taps a button on the right side of his headset and then pulls the earpiece on that side away from his head. He reaches over and taps a button on the right earpiece of Annie’s as Haymitch does the same on his own. The slight hum of the headset fades, even though she can still hear Finnick talking to the others about tree rats and plants and water in her right ear. Experimentally, she blows into the mouthpiece. Nothing. He turned off the microphones, then.

“They need water,” Martin states. He glances at Annie. “It isn’t apparent from watching them, but Mags isn’t doing well. Her vitals are all over the place. Food helped, but if she doesn’t have water soon, I’m afraid she’s going to have another stroke.”

Annie holds her breath as the ever-present waves threaten to swamp her. She blinks rapidly, then squeezes her eyes shut, pushing the darkness back, away. Distantly, she hears Martin relay to Haymitch their earlier conversation about water and the feasibility of sending it into the arena. When she opens her eyes, both men are silent, watching her.

“Hang in there, Annie,” Haymitch tells her when he sees she’s with them again. “Water’s too expensive, but the means to access it isn’t.”

Annie forces herself to breathe deeply and steadily. “What do you mean?” she asks.

“They’re smart. Give ‘em enough clues and they’ll figure it out. Katniss and Finnick are on the right trail. I’m sure of it.”

“You mean the tree rats?” Annie asks and Haymitch nods.

“We just need to come up with something to give ‘em that last push. Those rats are the key. They know where the water is.”

Annie turns toward Martin. “But I thought we’re not allowed to tell them even if we know where it is.”

Haymitch snorts. “Screw that. We can’t draw ‘em a map or send ‘em a note with detailed instructions, but we can still send something that’ll help.”

“ _If_ we figure out ourselves where the water is,” Martin reminds them both.

Through the window in the door to the control room, Annie watches the monitors across from where they stand, just outside the door. She can’t hear any of what’s going on, and she doesn’t know whose monitors they are, but they show the same tree rats in the background of the scene, snuffling around as they climb the trunks of the trees. She looks up at Haymitch.

“It’s in the trees.”

Haymitch blinks, stops talking in the middle of a sentence.

“What’s in the trees?” Martin asks.

“The water,” Annie and Haymitch say in tandem.

Annie steps closer to the door. There’s a large “7” in the corner of the monitors that show the tree rats. “See?” Annie points toward Johanna Mason arguing with an older man wearing glasses as she wraps a strip of cloth torn from something around his back and shoulder. Beyond Johanna, a tree rat is gripping a tree trunk and gnawing a hole in the bark, licking at the tree. “But what can we send to tell _them_ that?” she continues.

“I have no idea,” Martin says, frowning.

Haymitch grins. “I do.” He taps at his headset and replaces the earpiece over his right ear. “Fulfillment. District 12.” He waits for a couple of seconds, then, “I need you to drop in a metal spile.” Another pause as Haymitch listens then growls, “Look it up if you don’t know what it is.” Another growl. “No, no. A _spile_.” He spells it. “It’s used to extract sap from trees.” Another pause. “Yes. That’s it. Make sure it’s made of metal. I don’t want the damn thing breaking apart the first time they try to use it.” Haymitch rolls his eyes at whatever the person on the other end of the conversation says. “That’s fine. Less than I thought it’d cost.”

He taps the headset and pulls back the earpiece again as Martins says, “Thanks, Haymitch.”

“No problem, Perch. My kids or yours don’t matter. They all need the water and it’s not like they’re gonna hold out on each other. I don’t know if Peeta’s familiar with a spile, but I’m sure Katniss is.”

The anthem begins to play over their headsets. “I guess we’d better go back in,” Martin says reluctantly, a look of trepidation in his eyes. He opens the door and holds it for Annie and Haymitch; the mentor from 12 breaks right and Annie and Martin return to their stations to the left. While the death toll floats in the sky for those confined to the arena, the faces of the dead appear and then fade out on all the monitors around the control room.

Annie sees Martin react from the corner of her eye as the dead are displayed and each one seems to hit him like a fist. When Cecelia from District 8 appears, he pushes back from the console and closes his eyes, unable to continue watching. She hears a gasp and turns toward the sound. Rae watches the screen to Annie’s left, unblinking as the tears fall.

But even as Rae’s and Martin’s pain registers, Annie focuses on her monitor, on Finnick where he sits at the entrance of the hut they built for shelter, an arm around Mags as she leans her head against his shoulder. The expression on his face doesn’t change. He shows no emotion for the dead, even though Annie knows he feels Cecelia’s loss in particular, knows that she was a friend. Tears run freely down Mags’ face.

Martin’s back is to their monitors when he says, “Mags and Woof have been friends for… sixty years? More?” He wipes his eyes hard with the heels of his hands. “Damn it.”

To her other side, Rae says, “Trayn loved to paint flowers.” She laughs, the sound unsteady. “And they were always yellow, no matter what kind of flower it was.”

One last face appears – Seeder, District 11’s victor in the 33rd Hunger Games – and fades away into the seal of Panem. But the image in Annie’s mind of Seeder dying before Annie left the control room a few hours before is suddenly replaced by a more vivid memory: Seeder laughing as she bounced a ball, keeping it away from Martin just before Finnick swept in and stole it from them both. The feed returns to normal, filling the screens around the control room with scenes of jungle or beach as the moon rises high over the arena. Silence falls as those who watch mourn.


	25. If the Sky Can Crack...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings: underage drinking, references to rape and suicide**

**Chapter Twenty-Five – If the Sky Can Crack…**

Too on edge to sleep, Finnick takes the first watch. While the others lay down in the hut, he clears a tree of the ever-present vines and settles to the ground there, his back against its trunk. To keep his hands busy, he strips the leaves from the vines and weaves the remaining stems into a small sack they can use to carry nuts or cooked meat. The vines aren’t barbed and don’t appear to have mouths, like those of his Games, but he hasn’t ruled out the possibility that they’re mutts. Just because the vines haven’t attacked yet doesn’t mean they won’t. Everything in this arena so far has been too easy; even Peeta’s near death was a careless accident, preventable, yes, but nothing to fight against.

He mentally catalogs the few sounds he hears, the better to recognize anything that might be out of place and thus a potential threat: the occasional murmur of voices or shuffle of cloth as someone shifts inside the hut, the scrabble of tree rat claws on bark as they root around for food and water. Though he listens intently for several minutes, all he hears from the jungle comes from things small and random.

Reaching down, Finnick picks up the bowl of tepid water beside him and drinks, grateful to have it. If it weren’t for Katniss, he wouldn’t. Even Mags, who has seen just about everything in her long life, didn’t recognize the thing Katniss dubbed a “spile.” It could only have been from Haymitch, as neither Martin nor Annie would have known to send it, even if they knew the water was in the trees.

Annie. Is she still in Peacekeeper custody? Or have they let her go? Is she back with the other mentors? Is she locked up in a cell somewhere, charged with illegal possession and use of the drugs that belonged to him? No matter where she is, she’s still a prisoner. Finnick pushes that thought away as one more thing he can do nothing about. It’s still hard to accept that Cecelia, Seeder, and the others are gone, that he killed Hamilton so easily.

The only way Finnick can help Annie, help them all, is to do what he can to reach those watching the Games, and do it with enough subtlety to get past the censors, yet be clear enough for the audience to understand. He plays with Haymitch’s token, spinning the bangle on his wrist, watching the play of the moonlight on the flames etched into the gold. After a time, an idea strikes him.

Wishing he had his guitar, Finnick sings the lullaby Katniss sang when Rue, the little girl from 11, died the year before. It was on the tape of the 74th Games and Finnick had asked Mags about it. She said the song was very old, from before the Dark Days, and that her mother used to sing it to her when she was small. Finnick had made a joke about ancient history and dinosaurs and Mags had poked him, making him jump. Annie, sleeping with her head in his lap, never stirred. But when everyone else had gone to bed and Annie was still asleep, Finnick replayed that part of the tape, committing the song to memory.

He still doesn’t know why he did it, other than it struck him when he watched that Katniss singing it while Rue faded wasn’t just an act of compassion, but one of unwitting rebellion as well. That song had inspired another act of rebellion when District 11 sent Katniss the bread meant for Rue. Finnick hopes the people back home will understand his own act of rebellion now, a man from District 4 singing a song that, because of Katniss and Rue, will be forever associated with Districts 11 and 12. Two districts united against the Games, against the Capitol, now become three.

He lets the song fade away and listens again to the relative silence of the night. There’s still no breeze to stir the leaves, to dissipate the heat of the day, trapped in the humid jungle air. The hut is quiet, those inside probably asleep. A tree rat shambles across the clearing toward Finnick and he throws a rock at it. _No need to take any chances_ , he thinks as it skitters off in the opposite direction. The tree rat is the only sign of life and after a couple of minutes, Finnick settles back against his tree and takes another drink of water.

He follows the lullaby with a song Haymitch taught him years ago, the night after Finnick’s sixteenth birthday when he and Chaff took Finnick to a dive and got him good and drunk to take his mind off… other things. At the time, Haymitch called it a drinking song.

_Are you, are you coming to the tree_  
 _Where they strung up a man they say murdered three?_  
 _Strange things did happen here, but stranger would it seem_  
 _If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree._

_Are you, are you coming to the tree_  
 _Where the dead man called out for his love to flee?_  
 _Strange things did happen here, but stranger would it seem_  
 _If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree._

_Are you, are you coming to the tree_  
 _Where I told you to run so we’d both be free?_  
 _Strange things did happen here, but stranger would it seem_  
 _If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree._

_Are you, are you coming to the tree?_  
 _Wear a necklace of rope side by side with me._  
 _Strange things did happen here, but stranger would it seem_  
 _If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree._

“Seriously, Haymitch, that is the most depressing song I’ve ever heard.” Finnick stared at the older man, who tilted to the left as he spoke. It was only when Chaff grabbed Finnick’s arm and righted him on the barstool that Finnick realized he had slid halfway to the disgustingly sticky floor. “You’d have to be drunk to sing that.”

Haymitch grinned at him and held his arms out expansively, his half empty glass in one hand, amber liquid sloshing, a nearly full bottle in the other. “I said it was a drinking song, didn’t I?”

Finnick laughed. Or rather, giggled. It was a little embarrassing. “Yeah, I guess you did,” he said as he lifted his own glass to his lips only to find it empty. He reached for the bottle and overbalanced, but Chaff caught him, averting a disastrous trip to the nasty floor for the second time in as many minutes.

“I think the boy’s had enough, Mitch,” Chaff said, sounding amused, his arm still around Finnick’s waist, holding him steady on the stool. Chaff wasn’t built the same, didn’t smell the same, didn’t feel the same, but all Finnick could think of, smell, feel was the man who’d used him the night before. He felt panic stir as bile rose in the back of his throat and he lunged for the bottle.

“Not enough. Not nearly enough.” Finnick didn’t recognize the sound of his own voice, but he saw the look on Haymitch’s face. Chaff loosened his hold on Finnick, but didn’t let go until he’d forcibly shifted the boy to a more secure position on the stool. Haymitch took the empty glass from Finnick’s hand and poured an inch or so of liquor into it before handing it back. He exchanged a look with Chaff over Finnick’s head as Finnick took a swallow, barely feeling it burn its way down his throat, washing away the bile.

Gesturing with his glass, Haymitch announced, “I am gonna teach you that song, Finnick. Fishermen aren’t all that different from miners.” Chaff snorted and took the bottle from Haymitch, filling his own glass.

“You ain’t never been either one, Mitch, so how would you know?” Haymitch flipped his middle finger at Finnick – no, that wasn’t right, at Chaff – but Chaff just laughed at him. “And besides, none of that made any damn sense.”

Finnick felt a little wobbly and his eyes were vibrating. He blinked a couple times, but it didn’t help. _I think I’m drunk_ , Finnick thought. He’d never been drunk before. He'd turned sixteen here in the Capitol and his parents said he wasn't allowed to drink until he was of age. When Haymitch started talking again, Finnick finally just fixed his gaze on Haymitch’s mouth to help him concentrate, leaned back against the bar for support, and let the room spin.

“Now, this song, 'the Hanging Tree,' it’s been around for a while. My buddy Burt Everdeen learned it from his dad who learned it from _his_ dad, and Burt taught me and Jonas. We sang it in three-part harmony, back home, but I don’t think you losers can handle that, so we’ll just do it straight.”

Finnick blinked. “Three-part harmony? You?”

Haymitch shot him a sour look. “Just shut up and sing when I tell you to sing.” He sang it through once, Finnick and Chaff listening, and then Haymitch and Chaff, who had heard it many times before, sang together. Their voices blended surprisingly well. It was a haunting tune and both it and the lyrics took root in Finnick’s head. When Haymitch said, “All right, boy, your turn. Let’s go through it one more—”

Finnick didn’t let him finish; he sang it straight through. When the song was over, Haymitch and Chaff just stared at him, but there was a smattering of applause throughout the bar.

“Huh,” Haymitch said. “Didn’t know you could sing.” Finnick had shrugged and downed the rest of the liquor in his glass, uncomfortable with everyone staring at him.

It was a few years later that Haymitch told him the real significance of the song. They’d been in the Capitol for the pre-Games festivities – the 70th Games, just a few days before Finnick met both Annie and Johanna – and Haymitch was worse off than usual. There was something in his eyes, in the defeated way he held himself. Finnick had asked him what was wrong and instead of answering, the older man pulled him aside and led him from the party, didn’t stop until they were outside the building in the open air. The summer night was still warm.

“You going to tell me what this is about, Haymitch?”

“You remember that song I taught you?” Finnick frowned, startled. There was only one song he’d ever heard Haymitch Abernathy sing.

“'The Hanging Tree?' Yeah. What about it?” Haymitch’s eyes flickered right then left. He looked past Finnick and then shifted until he could see back the way they came. He even looked up, as though there might be someone on the roof. Only once he made sure there was no one else in ear shot did he answer.

“Burt Everdeen and Jonas Hawthorne are dead. Killed in a mining accident.” It was no wonder Haymitch was acting off. Along with Chaff, those two were the only friends Haymitch ever spoke of.

“Your singing partners back home?”

“Used to be. No one to sing but me now.” He looked at Finnick, his expression bleak, his eyes bloodshot and it occurred to Finnick that it was from grief, this time, not drink. “It was no accident. The night before, the three of us were at Greasy Sae’s, in the Hob.” Haymitch had spoken of the Hob before. It was 12’s version of 4’s black market district. “Sae got to teasing Burt. Asked him why he didn’t sing her favorite song anymore. So he sang it. Me and Jonas joined in about halfway through. And then we three sang it again, the whole thing. There were Peacekeepers there, but there are always Peacekeepers in the Hob. Most of ‘em turn a blind eye to whatever they see. Or hear.”

“Why would Peacekeepers care if you sang an old drinking song?” Finnick asked, but as he ran through the lyrics, he had a feeling he knew why.

“Because it’s not an old drinking song.” Haymitch glanced at Finnick again. “The man who wrote it, he was the son of one of the ringleaders when Twelve rebelled. The man ‘who murdered three’ was his father, executed for killing three Peacekeepers who stumbled on a group of rebels. He held off the Peacekeepers while the others ran for the safety of the hills.”

“So it’s a song of rebellion.”

Haymitch nodded. “It’s forbidden to sing it in Twelve. Too provocative. Usually punishable by twenty lashes in the public square.” He laughs, like nails on a chalkboard. “Couldn’t really touch me. I’m a victor.” There was a wealth of sarcasm in the word. “But less than twenty-four hours later, Burt and Jonas were dead. They say the shaft they were working in collapsed, but all the miners I talked to said it was perfectly stable the day before.”

“Why are you telling me this, Haymitch?”

“Because that night… You sang it almost as well as Burt. You picked it up and you sang it note perfect after only hearing it, what? Three times?”

“Yeah… So?” The bleak look in Haymitch’s gray eyes faded, replaced by an intensity Finnick had never seen from him before. Finnick shivered in spite of the warmth of the evening.

“You have access to a lot of people, Finnick. A lot of powerful and well-connected people. Up to and including the President.” Finnick stared at Haymitch, a bitter old drunk at thirty-six, who cared about no one and nothing but his white liquor. Or so he had always thought. “I’ve watched you. You’ve grown up a lot. And although you hide it well, you have no more love for the Capitol than I do.”

Finnick turned to face his fellow victor, a man he thought he knew. “What exactly are you saying, Haymitch?” _And did you start to say it three years ago, when you taught me that song?_

Haymitch had asked him point blank then to join a rebellion. While Finnick hadn’t agreed to it that night, he _had_ agreed to work for them not long after. But he didn’t make the connection between Haymitch’s friend Burt and Katniss Everdeen until now. Burt must have been Katniss’ father. And the song… When Finnick was sixteen and the world revolved around him, it was just a drinking song with a haunting melody and kind of creepy lyrics. Now, though, he understands it. He’s living it, he and Annie both. The desperation. The hunger for freedom so they can live _their_ lives, not whatever fucked up version of living the Capitol and Snow dictate for their own ends. He laughs. _Except that my life may very well be at its end._

Feeling restless, Finnick runs his fingers through his hair – he isn’t used to how short it is – and stands. He stretches and picks up a trident, makes a quiet circuit around the clearing, pausing here and there to listen to the scratch of the tree rats’ teeth as they gnaw at the bark, trying to get at the water beneath. A glance into the hut on his way past shows Mags and Peeta both sound asleep. Mags is on her back with an arm flung above her head; she uses the yellow flotation belt in place of a pillow. Peeta, lying on his side next to Katniss, has an arm over her waist as she curls backward toward his body. She moves restlessly and Peeta’s arm tightens around her. She quiets.

Finnick returns to his tree and drops back down to the ground. He leans back and rests his head against the rough bark, his forearms on his tented knees. A wisp floats across the moon, the cloud not heavy enough to cast a shadow or dim the moon’s light. The shape of it, though, reminds him of Annie and the game she always loved to play on lazy summer afternoons.

It had started as a non-threatening way for him to pull her back from that place she retreated to inside herself. But as the days after her Games became weeks and months and years, as their relationship changed from mentor and tribute to friends and, eventually, to lovers, the game changed, too, became something they played at because they could, because they both wanted to, not because it was the only way for Finnick to reach her.

They’d lie out on the beach, side by side, and when one of them spotted a cloud that could be more than just a collection of water vapor and ice, they would point it out to the other and tell them what they saw. Usually it was just a description, a dog chasing a ball, a hovercraft, a sailboat flying across ocean waves, but sometimes there’d be a story if one of them stubbornly refused to see what the other described. Finnick smiled to himself. It was usually Annie who told the stories while Finnick did his best to distract her from them. Just a silly game they played, except for the one time that it wasn’t silly at all.

It was maybe a year after Annie moved in with him. He and Gil Keely had been working on repairing the roof of Finnick’s house following a storm. They were taking a break, talking. He didn’t know what they said to set her off, he still doesn’t know, but something was said and Annie panicked. She shot through the back door and sprinted down the beach. When Finnick realized how serious it was, he ran after her, but by then she had too much of a lead on him and he lost her.

It took over an hour to find her. She had run around the side of their house and doubled back toward the other end of the “village” to one of the unused ones. He finally found her huddled in a corner created by the back porch and the untended garden. She faced the sea, rocking, staring with unseeing eyes, trapped inside herself as she hadn’t been in more than a year.

Finnick dropped to his knees in front of her, tried to pull her hands away from her ears, but her muscles were locked, rigid. He didn’t think she even knew he was there, but he tried to reach her anyway. He couldn’t just leave her like that.

“Baby, please, come back to me. Annie, honey, I don’t know what I said, but whatever it was, I’m sorry. So sorry.” She didn’t respond, just kept rocking, rocking, seeing only whatever world she had retreated to inside her own head. “Annie, please. I love you. I can’t do this without you. Not anymore.” Nothing.

Finally, he pulled her into his lap, wrapped his arms around her, and just held her as he let the tears come. And still she gave no indication that she was aware of his presence. He didn’t know how long he sat there holding her, rocking her the way she had rocked herself, occasionally begging her to come back.

The sun dipped lower in the sky. Finnick had long since cried himself out. And still they sat there, rocking. Clouds began to drift in and pick up brilliant shades of pink and orange and gold from the setting sun. Watching the clouds gather, Finnick didn’t know what else to do, so he tried their game, a last ditch effort to reach her.

“Annie, do you see that cloud? To the left of the sun?” he whispered, pointing past her head. No response. “The one that looks like a big mushroom.” Still no response. “Well, it really is a mushroom. Hollow inside.” _Just like me without you._ “Look. There’s a door, right there in the base of the stem.” He pointed again, at a thin spot in the cloud that resisted the colors of the sunset and remained a dull bluish gray. He tried to say more, but he was too choked up to continue, not cried out after all. He pulled his arm back and slipped it under her arms, around her waist, buried his face in her hair.

But then Annie stirred. He went very still, holding his breath. “What’s inside it?” His heart seemed to stop before kicking into overdrive.

“I don’t know,” he told her. “Whoever lives there wouldn’t let me in.” She turned toward him and he loosened his hold to let her. She reached up and touched his face, wiped at his tears. “Annie, where did you go?” She didn’t answer. She never did, but he always asked.

“I’m hungry,” she told him as she traced the shape of his mouth with her fingertips. He kissed her fingers, tasted salt.

“Then let’s go feed you.”

He had unwrapped himself from around her, took her hand and helped her to her feet. As he led her along the beach, holding her hand like he’d never let her go, she said, “Finnick, I’m sorry.” She never told him what she was sorry for.

Back in the present, he says to her, “I know you probably can’t see it, Annie, but there’s a cloud hanging there by the moon. A cat, low to the ground, stalking something.” He smiles as he imagines her beside him, looking up. “It almost looks like it’s trying to catch the moon.” His voice catches on the last word as a wave of longing washes over him. He whispers, “I love you, Annie,” but he’s not sure if the microphones can pick it up, so he says it again, louder, follows it with “I hope you’re okay.” If she isn’t there to hear it, he hopes Martin or someone will at least tell her about it.

An hour or so before he’s supposed to wake Katniss for her turn on watch, Finnick is working knots using a length of vine in place of rope. A bell begins to ring out, loud and strong; the ground beneath him, the tree behind him seems to tremble with the force of the sound. He jumps to his feet, vine rope forgotten, trident in hand, and looks sharply all around but sees nothing. Katniss, jolted from sleep by the bell, joins him outside the hut.

“What’s going on?” He holds up a hand to silence her.

The bell tolls twelve times, pealing out over the arena, but Mags and Peeta sleep through it. The sound fades away and the tree rats slowly resume their hunt for water. Finnick and Katniss look at each other.

“I counted twelve,” Finnick says and Katniss nods.

“Mean anything, do you think?” she asks and Finnick shakes his head.

“I have no idea.” They fall silent again, both of them listening intently. All Finnick hears is the snuffling, gnawing sounds of the tree rats. There’s a flash of light in the distance and then they see through a thin spot in the jungle canopy a jagged line of lightning rip the sky and strike a tree. Instinctively, Finnick takes a step away from the tree he leaned against earlier and looks up at the sky above, but the clouds are no heavier now than they were an hour ago. The moon shines just as brightly. Katniss glances at him and then looks toward the light show in the distance.

“Go to sleep, Finnick. It’s my turn to watch, anyway.”

He hesitates. Given the events of the day and his current state of mind, the nightmares are going to be bad, if he manages to sleep at all, but she’s right, he needs to try to get some rest. He doesn’t answer her, just squeezes her shoulder in passing as he heads to the hut and settles just inside, his weapons within easy reach.

xXx

“Martin?” Annie says into her headset, “I’ll be okay if you want to get some sleep.” Martin, dozing at his station, jerks awake and nearly falls from his chair. In the background, Mags laughs at something Peeta said, the timing perfect.

“What?” Martin asks, blinking rapidly. “Why are you looking at me like that?” Annie forces her mouth into a neutral line, fighting hard not to laugh.

“Why don’t you get some sleep?” Martin scrubs his hands over his face and glances at his monitors. Having collected enough water to fill several of the bowls Mags and Finnick wove that afternoon, the group in the arena is washing away some of the sweat and salt of the day. The clock on Annie’s console reads 8:43. It’s summer in the real world and there’s still light in the sky, though they can’t see it from the windowless control room or victors’ lounge. Inside the arena, it’s full night and has been for almost two hours.

 _“Get some sleep, Katniss,”_ Finnick says in Annie’s ear and Annie turns from Martin back to her own screen. _“I’ll take first watch.”_ The girl hesitates, looking into the hut where she – and the ever-present cameras – can just see Peeta helping Mags get settled. The roof and walls Finnick and Mags wove block the Gamemakers’ view and Annie wonders what, if anything, they’ll do to change that. _“Go,”_ Finnick prods Katniss. _“I’ll wake you when I get tired. We don’t have to bother either of them. Just let them both sleep.”_ Katniss nods.

 _“Okay, but you wake me in…”_ She pauses. _“…four hours, whether you feel tired or not. You need to sleep, too, Finnick.”_ He smiles at her and salutes with one of his tridents.

 _“Deal.”_ He walks over to a tree where he’ll have a good view of the hut and the jungle beyond and starts pulling vines from the trunk, dragging more down from the branches over his head.

Beside Annie, Martin glances down at his control console and Mags’ vitals. Apparently satisfied with what he sees there, he turns again toward Annie. “All right, Annie. Sleep does sound good. But we need to work out a shift rotation for later.” She smiles at him.

“When you get back.”

Martin nods, covering a yawn with his hand, and heads for the door. “See you in a few hours.”

Annie turns back to the console in front of her. Between the visual feed and the readout of vital signs, it looks like Mags is already asleep, although her heart rate appears to Annie to be too fast. According to the parameters outlined on the control console, which are based on her medical baseline, it’s well within the norm for her so Annie resolves not to worry. A glance at Finnick’s readout reassures her that his vital signs are also good as he leans back against his vine-free tree, watching over the hut. He picks up one of the discarded vines and strips off the leaves, begins to weave, not looking at what his hands are doing.

Time passes with nothing much to do and nothing much happening in the arena, at least as far as District 4 is concerned. Since she’s watching both Finnick’s and Mags’ screens and they’re showing identical pictures, Annie switches one of them to another feed, sees the Careers watching a silver parachute float down toward them. When it lands, Brutus looks at the others then shrugs and walks over to pick it up. The camera isn’t oriented so that Annie can see what gift they just received and she moves on before that changes.

Chaff pulls a long strip of bark from a tree and gives it to the female from 6, then uses his knife to cut another strip. He tilts his head back and holds the bark over his mouth, crushing it in his one hand and catching the water that drips from it. Sitting on the ground beside the tree, the woman chews on the piece he gave her. There is a pile of crushed and chewed bark at the base of the tree. Annie switches again.

A pair that Annie doesn’t recognize, the woman older than the man by a few years, chase after a tree rat through the jungle. The woman dives for it, actually has her hand on its tail when the man trips over her. The rat makes its escape, leaving a piece of its skinny tail in the woman’s hand as she shouts angrily at the man. Switch.

Johanna sits on the edge of a clearing similar to the one in which Finnick and the others made camp, her back against a large rock. She holds her head in her hands. In the middle of the clearing a man tries to pull a woman away from another man whose blood darkens the blue of his jumpsuit all along his left side. Every time the first man pulls her away, the woman runs in a little loop and returns to the man lying on the ground. Johanna screams at them and from the set of her shoulders, her clenched fists, she is beyond frustrated. There’s no sign that they’ve found water yet and Annie wishes she could send them a spile, certain that Johanna would know what to do with it.

Having reassured herself that nothing important is happening in the arena, Annie heads out to the bathroom, glancing downstairs into the lounge. The big television that carries the main feed shows the man and woman who lost the tree rat as they argue. The man strikes the woman, knocking her to the ground. She laughs and wipes blood from the corner of her mouth, then launches herself at the man and lands a punch to his jaw that whips his head around. One of the victors watching in the lounge cheers. “Excellent shot, Cara!” Since none of the other tributes are engaging in anything exciting, the broadcast will probably focus on those two for a while, even if it switches to the others for brief updates.

When she passes back through a few minutes later, Finnick is on the big screen, playing with the bracelet Haymitch gave him. It catches the moonlight and the camera zooms in on him as he begins to sing the lullaby that Katniss sang during the last games. Then the feed switches to Gloss watching over the other Careers as they lay down to sleep while Finnick sings on. Unlike Finnick and his group, the Careers are out in the open at the edge of the jungle rather than within it. The lullaby continues as the scene switches and Annie realizes she’s hearing it from both her own feed and the main feed on the television, that the Gamemakers are using it as a momentary soundtrack for the Games. The man from earlier stalks Cara through the jungle, short sword in hand, and the camera follows Cara as she climbs a tree to the sound of Finnick’s voice. Annie returns to the control room.

Resuming her seat, she checks Finnick’s and Mags’ vitals: still good. She spins her chair, looking at the other mentors. Most of them are watching their screens, although the mentors from 6 and 7 play a game of cards. Haymitch is slumped in his chair, talking to someone over his headset. He says something to the person on the other end and then stands, heads out into the hallway as Finnick’s lullaby fades. Shale from District 2 paces as he watches his tributes. He’s younger than Annie, only twenty, the winner of the 73rd Games. This is his first time mentoring on his own. In that, he and Annie have something in common.

Haymitch returns with two plates of food, one of which he places on the console next to Annie. She looks up at him, startled, and he pulls the right earpiece away from her ear. “Eat,” he orders her and puts the earpiece back in place. Lyme follows him mere seconds later bearing four steaming coffees on a tray; she sets a cup down beside Annie’s plate and presses another into Haymitch’s hands, then joins Shale at the District 2 station.

Finnick begins another song, a thing of haunting beauty that speaks of death and lovers reunited at the end of a rope. Mesmerized, Annie watches him as he sings. Although he hasn’t moved from his position by the tree, his back is straight and he sways just a little as he sings. His eyes are closed and his fingers no longer obsessively weave, the vine dangling loosely. When he ends the song, Finnick doesn’t move and Annie thinks he is lost in some memory. It’s a couple of minutes before he opens his eyes again. His weaving drops forgotten to the ground as he runs his hands through his hair. Abruptly, he pushes to his feet, picks up a trident, and walks around the clearing.

The pungent coffee on the console by Annie’s left hand makes its presence known and she reaches for it. Steam curls up from the black liquid and she expects it to burn her mouth, but it doesn’t. Holding the warm cup between her hands, she stares down into it, losing herself in its inviting depths, in memories of her own.

The first time she heard Finnick sing, it was also in the context of the Games. It was her first morning of training, or it was supposed to be, except that, before reaching the gymnasium she had turned and headed back to the fourth floor. She didn’t see any point in it.

She went straight to her room, quietly, avoiding anyone who might still be there. It was only a couple of minutes later that she heard what sounded like a guitar. She held her breath and listened, and what started as just a couple of chords turned into a melody. A male voice joined in, but her room was too far away to hear what he sang; his voice was just another instrument, blending with the guitar.

Annie followed the sound down the hall to an open door. Inside, Finnick Odair sat in the middle of his bed, legs folded like a pretzel. She didn’t recognize either the tune or the lyrics, which became clearer as she drew closer, a song of pain and loss. As soon as he realized he had an audience, the music stopped. He looked up at her and set the guitar aside.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you supposed to be in training?” Annie shrugged and leaned back against the wall just inside the bedroom door, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. She realized then that her posture was defensive, but it was too late to change position without looking guilty as well as defensive.

“What’s the point? I’m not going to kill anyone.” Finnick rolled his eyes.

“Oh, please. If someone comes at you with a sword? A knife or a rock? Even their bare hands. You’ll fight back. It’s instinctive.” She raised an eyebrow at that.

“Instinctive,” she repeated, dubious. “I didn’t realize you had a degree in psychology.” It was Finnick’s turn to shrug.

“Well, it was for me. And I’m not anything special.” Annie wasn’t so sure about that, either.

“I’m not you.”

“No, you’re you. You’re Annie Cresta and you’re—”

“A glorified Golden Retriever. Yeah, I remember.”

Anger flashed in those notorious sea green eyes. Instead of continuing whatever he was about to say when she interrupted him, he reached over to his nightstand and took something out of the drawer, threw it to her.

For a split second, she thought about ignoring it, not rising to the bait, but instead she reached up her hand and plucked it from the air before she consciously understood that it was a knife and that he’d thrown it hilt first. A small fishing knife, the naked blade was not something to safely toss around. She glared at him, sitting there in the middle of his bed, holding the knife’s sheath in the palm of his hand; he knew she’d catch the knife rather than be hit. “What is this?”

He smirked at her, but there was an edge to it. “A knife, genius.”

Annie made a face at that. “I know it’s a knife. What’s it for? Why’d you throw it at me?”

Finnick cocked his head to one side. “If you’re so set on dying, go ahead and use it.” When she didn’t say anything, he continued, still sounding angry, “I can show you a couple of options, if you’d like.”

Both her brows shot up as his meaning dawned. “You want me to kill myself?”

“ _I_ want you to _live. You’re_ the one who wants to give up. So do it. Save me the effort of trying to keep you alive.”

Turning the knife over in her hands, Annie studied it. Short, with a half-serrated drop point blade, it was razor sharp, a tool used to cut nets or fishing line or whatever else presented. It looked like it had seen a bit of use. Frowning, she looked at Finnick, met his eyes.

“Why do you have this here?” He couldn’t possibly need a fishing knife, or really any kind of knife in the Capitol. He didn’t answer her, just sat there watching her. And then it hit her. “You?” she asked, incredulous. “You want to kill yourself?” She was horrified. Finnick Odair was rich, popular, famous. He had everything and he wanted to die? “Why?” she asked, and she didn’t know if she was asking why he wanted to or why he hadn’t done it.

He shifted, pulled his knees in close to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs. He looked at the knife in her hands when he spoke, not at her. “I used to take it out every day, look at it the way you just did. But in the end, I always put it back. And then it was every other day, every few days, every few weeks. I hardly ever take it out now.” His gaze met hers.

“Never did figure out why they let me keep it. I guess they just didn’t believe I’d use it.” His eyes dropped again to the knife in her hands. “And now I know I won’t. Because every day that I’m still here, still alive, is another day that I win. Another day that I get to show them that they’re not going to break me. That I’m not going to give up.”

Finnick didn’t explain who “they” were or why they wanted to break him. Annie wasn’t sure that he wasn’t making all of it up just to make his point, but the Finnick Odair sitting in front of her was so different from the young man she saw on television that she couldn’t help but believe that at least some of what he said was true. She walked slowly to the bed and handed the knife to him hilt first, not trusting herself to toss it to him the way he’d tossed it to her. She felt his gaze on her as soon as she started to move and he never looked away.

Standing beside the bed, she looked down at him and said, half statement, half question, “So you think I should go to training.” He didn’t say anything, just clipped his knife back into its sheath; she supposed his silence was her answer. “I don’t think I can learn much about fighting in three days.”

“Two and a half,” Finnick pointedly corrected her. “You learned the basics of fighting in school. What you need to learn is how to survive.” He reached across the bed to the nightstand again and tucked the knife away, pulled out a pad of paper and a pencil. Settling back into place, he started jotting down what looked to Annie like a list. “You need to spend your time learning knots and snares and what plants you can eat and which ones are poison.” He continued writing as he spoke and when he finished, he tore the sheet from the pad and handed it to her.

Reading the list, she frowned and leaned in closer to him – he smelled good – pointing at a scribble that she couldn’t make out. “What’s this? I can’t read it.”

He grimaced. “Shelter.” Tapping the paper with one finger, he continued, “Those are the training stations I want you to concentrate on, starting this afternoon.”

She looked at him. “This afternoon?” He nodded.

“You’re going to training right after lunch.” He grinned at her then and she had a hard time paying attention to the rest of what he had to say.

Finnick’s voice over her headset pulls her back. He sounds like he’s sitting there beside her. _“I know you can’t see it from your angle, Annie, but there’s a cloud hanging there by the moon. A cat, low to the ground, stalking something.”_ She can hear the smile in his voice as it curls around her heart. _“It almost looks like it’s trying to catch the moon.”_ His voice falters on his next words and he has to repeat them, but as soon as she hears it, she’s glad he did. _“I love you, Annie. I hope you’re okay.”_

She pauses the feed to look at the image of Finnick on her screen, the wistful expression on his face. There’s just enough light from the moon to see a hint of the green of his eyes. Annie wishes she could tell him somehow that she’s alive and unharmed, that she’s here, watching over him. She glances down at the bruises around her right wrist, a dark bracelet against the tan of her skin.

The last thing Finnick saw of her before going into the arena was Peacekeepers dragging her off to who knew where. She knows him. His mind will replay that image over and over again every time he closes his eyes. Obviously, he’s acting as though she’s there in the control room, but wanting to believe something and knowing in your heart that it really is true are two different things.

When she toggles the feed back to live, Finnick is leaning back against his tree again, almost obsessively working knots on a length of vine and suddenly Annie doesn’t want to be alone. Rae is off getting some sleep, just like Martin. Annie doesn’t know Watt, Rae’s counterpart, well enough to talk to and she doesn’t know the woman watching over District 5 at all, not even her name. She looks down at her monitors again, where Finnick still watches over his companions, still works knots. She takes another drink of coffee and realizes the caffeine is probably not helping. She stares at the sandwich on her plate, the bowl of fruit beside it, all still untouched.

Haymitch.

Annie picks up her plate and her coffee and heads over to Haymitch’s station. He’s watching the same feed she is; the only things she won’t have immediate access to are her tributes’ vital signs. And she feels comfortable with Haymitch. Even if he doesn’t want to talk, that’s fine. It’ll be enough just being near someone else who cares about Finnick and Mags.

Haymitch looks over at her when she pulls out the empty seat beside him, unused for longer than Annie has been alive, then shoves his plate aside to make room for Annie’s. “Everything okay?”

She shrugs. “I’m just bored.” He gives her a lopsided grin.

“Trust me, sweetheart, a little boredom during the Games is not a bad thing.” He picks up the abandoned fork on his plate and spears a slice of apple from hers. “Thought I told you to eat.”

“I’m not very good at doing what I’m told.” He laughs.

“That’s what I hear.”

Annie makes a sound of mock outrage. “What has Finnick been saying about me?”

Haymitch laughs. “Honestly? All sorts of sappy crap. He’s as bad as Peeta.” Annie feels her cheeks grow warm and ducks her head, concentrates on unwrapping her sandwich.

Once she’s eaten a few bites, she asks, “Is it always like this?”

“Pretty much. Three parts deadly dull to one part just plain deadly.” Haymitch shrugs. “I’m not usually in the game more than a couple three days.”

They fall silent again, both watching the monitors. Haymitch finishes his coffee and Annie finishes her sandwich. She shares the fruit with Haymitch even though he tells her it’s not as much fun if he has her permission.

The arena, at least their part of it, is quiet. Finnick watches out over the jungle in front of him, still working and unworking knots. He replaces his vine rope twice when the repeated motion tears through the fibers. He just started on his third vine when a bell rings out over the arena and he jumps to his feet, the vine rope quickly replaced with a trident. Katniss joins him, rushing out of the hut with her bow in hand. Finnick turns in a circle, looking all around him as the bell continues to toll. Annie counts to twelve before it stops.

“One ring for each district?” she wonders aloud. Over her headset, Finnick says he counted twelve.

“Maybe…” Haymitch responds, but he doesn’t seem convinced.

Katniss says something that Annie misses, and Finnick’s response – _“I have no idea”_ – almost makes it sound as though he’s here with her and Haymitch. It’s somehow reassuring.

Katniss and Finnick look off into the distance, their backs to the camera. Whatever it is they watch is not obvious. _“Go to sleep, Finnick,”_ Katniss tells him. _“It’s my turn to watch, anyway.”_ Finnick doesn’t say anything to that. Instead, after a moment he turns and walks past Katniss to the hut, squeezing her shoulder as he passes. He lays down just inside the entrance, his trident within easy reach, and Annie hopes that he can relax enough to sleep.

“Haymitch?” He looks over at her. “Earlier, you said we can’t send them a map or note, but that we could send them clues.” He nods.

“I did. What are you asking me, Annie?” Frowning, she finishes off her coffee with a grimace. It isn’t as good at room temperature.

“It’s just… I need to let Finnick know that I’m okay. That the Peacekeepers didn’t hurt me this morning.” Haymitch says nothing, allows her to get to her point at her own pace. She likes that about him. “How do I do that?”

“You send him a gift. Something appropriate to the Games, but that could only come from you.”

“But they have food, weapons, and water. He doesn’t need anything else. Not right now, anyway.” Haymitch shakes his head.

“I didn’t say send him something he needs, just something appropriate to the Games.”

They fall silent again as Annie thinks over what Haymitch said. Something that Finnick could use but doesn’t necessarily need and that’s appropriate for the arena. _I guess that rules out a preloaded music player with all my favorite songs on it_ , Annie thinks as the sound of rain somewhere in the arena comes to her over the headset.


	26. When the Bullet Hits the Bone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Major character death. *sob***

**Chapter Twenty-Six – When the Bullet Hits the Bone**

“You didn’t even hesitate, Finnick,” Hamilton says conversationally. The look he gives Finnick over his glass of wine – red as blood – is one of mild rebuke. He sits in a chair straight from the control room, wears a mentor’s headset, holds a hand of cards, all familiar sights for Finnick. What is not familiar is that his face has the gray pallor of death, and as he sips at his wine, blood pulses from the three holes in his chest, staining his blue jumpsuit a deep and shiny crimson.

“I’m sorry, Ham. I couldn’t let you kill Katniss.” Hamilton listens to something over his headset, takes another sip of wine. Really, it’s such a deep red…. Maybe it’s not wine at all. The trickles from the holes in Hamilton’s chest become more of a flow as rain begins to fall somewhere in the distance.

“Bah. I guess it’s okay, man. It’s not like I was part of your rebellion anyway. That’s all that matters, right? That you and your buddies take down the Capitol?” He frowns and sips; the level of wine – blood? – in the glass doesn’t go down, but the flow from his chest increases, the streams meeting up just below his heart and combining into a small river. “Come to think of it, the girl from Twelve doesn’t really matter; she’s not part of your little rebellion, either.” Finnick blinks and takes a step back. He slips on something and almost falls, but someone steadies him from behind.

“Katniss matters,” Finnick protests. “She’s integral to the rebellion. We can’t succeed without her.” The words don’t sound like him. His voice doesn’t sound like it’s his, either, and he realizes the words and voice both belong to Plutarch. Hamilton laughs and his teeth are red as Snow’s.

“Integral to the _plan_ , maybe, but the rebellion isn’t hers.” Ham laughs again and the hands on Finnick’s arms tighten, begin to pull at him, pulling him away from the dead victor. Finnick doesn’t cooperate, tries to stay where he is, and he slips again, looks down. He’s standing in a pool of thick red wine. Black-gloved hands that extend from white Peacekeeper sleeves jerk him roughly back. There is a light stench of roses in the air, mingling with the tannins in the wine.

Finnick kicks out at the Peacekeeper trying to drag him away, yanks his arms free. Hamilton giggles, high-pitched and eerie. “I’ll see you soon, Finnick. You can’t run forever.” He downs the contents of his glass and the river of wine pours in a flood from the holes in his chest. “Run, Finnick. Run! _Run!_ ”

Finnick wakes. Katniss’ voice, not Hamilton’s. Her urgency is not part of his nightmares, it’s part of his reality. He rolls from the opening of the hut to the sandy ground, grabs up the trident he laid there earlier so that he has a trident in each hand. Shaking his head to clear it of sleep, he springs to his feet. Katniss rushes past him into the hut, making a beeline for Peeta who sits groggily where he slept. Past Peeta, Mags sleeps on.

Finnick doesn’t wait to find out what the threat is; he shifts both tridents to one hand and ducks back into the hut, drags Mags out by her arms, roughly waking her. As soon as she’s clear, he slings her over his shoulder and moves away from the hut.

Fog creeps into the clearing, slipping between the trees, tendrils reaching out as though to pull the body of it along, and Finnick can think of only one word to describe the way it moves: muttation. He runs with Mags in the opposite direction, crashing through the trees to escape. It occurs to him as he runs that there are no tree rats within sight or sound. Sinking ship, he thinks and hysterical laughter bubbles up in his throat.

 _“What is it, boy?”_ Mags asks in Castellan, not even bothering with the language of the Capitol. She takes the tridents from him, allowing him to get a more secure hold on her legs.

 _“I don’t know.”_ He slips into the patterns of his childhood, answering her in kind. _“Some sort of fog. Katniss shouted for us to run.”_ He wishes he could risk going back for that third trident. Shifting Mags to a better position without breaking his stride, he continues to run, dodging between trees. He doesn’t stop until he reaches another, smaller clearing.

There’s no sign of the fog, but there’s also no sign of Katniss and Peeta. He can’t even hear them. “Shit.” He looks at Mags over his shoulder. “We have to go back.”

Mags nods. The air is cooler, but still humid, just as heavy to breathe as it was with the sun pounding down on them and she’s having a hard time catching her breath, but still forces words past her lips. _“Need Katniss and Peeta both.”_

As Finnick heads a few yards into the jungle, back the way they came, every breath tastes metallic. It grows stronger with every stride. With nothing but the light of the moon, barely robust enough to force its way through the jungle canopy, it’s difficult to see his own trail through the trees, but he hears something from the direction of their camp. He stops. Raising his hands to his mouth to direct the sound, he shouts, “Katniss! Peeta! Follow my voice!” He listens; the sound of bodies smashing through the trees grows louder. “Katniss!”

Something crashes to a stop. “Finnick!” Katniss’ voice is faint. The jungle falls silent, any little nighttime noises deadened by the fog.

“Katniss!” Nothing. He closes his eyes for a moment, takes a deep breath as he listens; the metallic taste has grown to a tinny, acrid reek. He coughs and Mags’ weight shifts. Her arms tighten convulsively around his shoulders.

“Go, hijo. She… needs you.” Finnick nods and, fighting his own instincts, which tell him to just take Mags and run, he starts again through the jungle, toward their camp and the unnatural fog. In his haste, he knocks his shoulder painfully into a tree; he thinks as she cries out that Mags’ arm around his neck on that side, above his shoulder, is the only thing that saved her from a painful break.

“Sorry, Mags,” he says before shouting, “Katniss! Peeta!” Bits and wisps of fog swirl around his shoes, spin up around his ankles as he runs. It’s getting harder to breathe and his skin stings as tiny droplets strike his face and neck, his hands, seeming to burrow in. His eyes and lungs burn. When Finnick finally spots them, Peeta is having trouble getting his artificial leg back under him while Katniss tries to help him to his feet. “Hang on,” Finnick tells Mags as he runs toward them.

Katniss has a shoulder under Peeta’s right side when Finnick reaches them and jerks Peeta up by his left bicep. He can’t put the younger man’s arm around his shoulder with Mags there, so he shifts, manages to get an arm around Peeta’s waist. They move forward, Katniss supporting half Peeta’s weight, Finnick supporting the other half and all of Mags’. Finnick stumbles, recovers, stumbles again on the uneven ground. He stops. The fog creeps inexorably toward them.

“Leave me,” Mags says in his ear, her voice barely above a whisper. Finnick sucks in too much of the tainted air, chokes on it, coughs it out.

“I’m not leaving you,” he whispers fiercely as a vise clamps down on his heart, but he can’t go on much longer with both her weight and Peeta’s.

_“Leave me, son of my heart. I’m as good as dead anyway.”_

_“Stop it, Mags.”_ His grip tightens convulsively under her knees and he chokes back a sob.

 _“You still have a chance. You_ live _, boy. You go home to your Annie and you make babies with her and you remember me in your heart.”_ Her voice is stronger, her words clearer and more sure than they’ve been in more than a year.

_“Mags, please.”_

_“And if you have a little girl, you call her ‘Mags’ for me, yes?”_ She gives him a squeeze, brushes a kiss against his jaw.

Almost blinded by tears, unable to respond, Finnick trips over one of the ever-present vines, barely recovers. “It’s no good,” Finnick finally tells Katniss over Peeta’s drooping head. “I’ll have to carry him.” Just beyond Katniss, tendrils of fog reach for them, rising higher, so thick now that it’s a roiling, rolling wall extending above their knees. The acrid stench of it fills his nostrils, burning. Finnick shudders. “Can you carry Mags?” Katniss nods and says yes, but the sound of her voice is forced, as though she’s trying to convince herself as much as him that she can do it.

Finnick fights the despair that threatens to swamp him along with the fog and relinquishes Mags to Katniss. The fog grows thicker. Finnick shoulders Peeta’s greater weight as Mags hands the boy Finnick’s one remaining trident – the other must have been lost when they hit that tree – and Finnick heads off through the jungle at an angle instead of directly away from the fog, toward the water that surrounds the Cornucopia. Unless the fog muttation can burrow its way into that, too, the water should act as a barrier.

His right arm tingles and the sensation turns quickly to fire, as though every nerve ending burns. Finnick gasps at the pain and the gasp morphs into a cough. His left arm begins to tingle, all pins and needles. He can’t feel his right hand anymore. It’s as though a block of wood hangs from his wrist and he hopes that he still has a good grip on Peeta. Behind him, Katniss and Mags crash through the undergrowth, an oddly reassuring sound.

Peeta’s weight seems to increase with each step. It’s hard to breathe, painful, as the corrosive fog scorches skin and eyes and lungs alike. Although he somehow maintains his grip on Peeta, the feeling in Finnick’s arms fades to nothing, which is only marginally better than the pain before. And something is happening to his face – he can’t blink the tears from his eyes. _Is this what it felt like for Mags when she had her stroke?_ he wonders.

Finnick keeps moving through the jungle as fast as he can, but as his muscle control degrades, each step becomes harder; pure adrenalin is all that keeps him on his feet and moving. Behind him he hears Katniss fall and he reluctantly slows his pace, afraid that he won’t be able to continue on if he slows too much. Before he can turn to help her and Mags, he hears Katniss regain her feet, which is good because Peeta slips and it’s all Finnick can do to readjust his grip. The muscles in both arms spasm and he can’t make his left hand work at all.

Katniss crashes to the ground twice more in the next few minutes, and the second time, she doesn’t get back up. Finnick slows again, turns. Mags is flat on her back, lying between him and Katniss. Beyond her, Katniss struggles to regain her feet. She grasps at the vines dangling from the trees, at the tree trunks themselves, but she can’t grip anything. Finnick shifts Peeta again and heads toward the women.

When he’s closer, Finnick hears Mags’ wheezing, painful breathing past Peeta’s and his own. Katniss rasps out, “It’s no use. Can you take them both?” She coughs. “Go on ahead, I’ll catch up.”

He can see in her eyes, hear in her voice that she doesn’t believe he can carry them both – which he can’t – or that she’ll be able to catch up, that she’ll even be able to _get_ up without his help. Her words hit Finnick like physical blows, bringing tears to already stinging eyes.

“No. I can’t carry them both.” He can barely manage Peeta. “My arms aren’t working.” He has to make a choice: follow his heart and take Mags to relative safety, or take Katniss and, if possible, Peeta, leaving Mags behind to die, but keeping his promise to Heavensbee, to Haymitch. Save Mags however temporarily and let the fledgling rebellion die or save the unwitting Mockingjay to give the districts the hope they need to fight back.

The physical pain of the burning fog, growing worse as he stands there and it collects on his skin, combines with the emotional pain of the decision he can’t make: they hold him paralyzed. “I’m sorry, Mags. I can’t do it.” _Can’t carry you both. Can’t abandon either of you to the fog. Can’t save Katniss. Can’t do_ anything _. Fucking_ useless _!_

Mags’ voice cuts through both the fog that hunts them and the fog of despair in Finnick’s mind. _“Don’t you give up, boy. Too much to live for.”_ He bites back a sob as his vision blurs. Squeezing his eyes shut and then opening them again in an attempt to clear his vision, he starts to lower Peeta to the ground. He doesn’t know himself which of the untenable options will win out. And that’s when Mags heaves herself up.

She lurches over to Finnick, pain etched in the lines of her face along with the determination and iron will that are so much a part of her. She stops him from releasing Peeta, kisses Finnick’s mouth. _“Don’t ever forget that I love you, son of my heart.”_ She pushes away from him and staggers into the roiling wall of fog. Finnick, stunned, takes a step toward her, tries to reach out to stop her, but the muscles in his arms don’t cooperate. He can’t move. All he can do is watch.

No more than a couple of steps into the fog, Mags begins to convulse, a deadly dance that imperfectly mimics the dancing she used to do when Finnick was a boy: zambras, reels, jigs, seguidillas. She falls to the ground twitching. She doesn’t get back up.

Katniss, finally back on her feet, takes a step toward Mags and the fog, but stops short of reaching for her. And still Finnick can’t move. He wants to howl, but can’t even manage more than a broken whimper. After an eternity, a cannon fires. It’s over. Margreta Moreno is gone.

Mags is dead.

Blinded by tears but able to move again, Finnick whirls, somehow maintaining his grip on Peeta, and heads downhill. He crashes through the jungle, trusting that Katniss will follow. Or not. At that moment, he just can’t care.

xXx

Still going over a list in her head of things she could send Finnick, Annie starts to ask Haymitch a question, but stops when she sees his head nodding. He isn’t asleep yet, but he will be soon, if she lets him. She glances down at his console, sees that Peeta is sleeping deeply, that Katniss is taking a turn around the clearing. Finnick sprawls across the opening of the hut, one arm at an angle over his face, covering his eyes. Although she can’t hear anything over her headset to confirm it, Annie doesn’t think he’s asleep yet.

There is a rustle of cloth within the shelter, then, _“Finn… Awake?”_ Mags whispers, her voice rough and almost too low for Annie to hear. Finnick makes a noncommittal noise in response, confirming Annie’s suspicions and making her smile. Encouraged, Mags says, _“Screw Haymitch … Heavensbee.”_

Finnick snorts. _“Missed the boat on that one, Mags. And neither one is really my type.”_ There is laughter in his voice. Reaching across Haymitch’s console, Annie zooms in on Finnick just as something flies past his head to land on the ground. When she sees what it is, Annie smiles: Mags threw a nut at him.

 _“Serious, boy.”_ Mags’ voice still sounds rough, not like hers at all. Concerned, Annie’s smile fades and she stands. With a quick glance at Haymitch and then at the vitals of his tributes – all good – she walks over to her own station.

 _“So am I.”_ Finnick still sounds amused. All is well with him, according to his readouts, but Mags’ heart rate is elevated and she seems to be having some trouble with her breathing, although the readings are nowhere near the red zone. She blows her nose, or so Annie assumes from the sound, since she can’t see that far into the shelter. Finnick turns over onto his side, facing Mags so that all Annie sees are his shoulders and the back of his head. _“Mags? Are you crying?”_

A pause, then, _“Nada, boy. Doesn’t matter.”_ Finnick sits, starts to roll to his knees. _“Stay.”_ He subsides.

 _“What’s wrong?”_ He sounds worried; so is Annie.

Mags coughs to clear her throat and her voice sounds both stronger and more faint when she continues. _“Shouldn’t keep … girl in … dark.”_ Annie frowns and tries to turn up the volume on her feed, first using the headset controls and then the main controls on her console, but it won’t go any higher. _“Or boy. It‘s wrong.”_

After a long pause, Finnick whispers, his voice now as hard to hear as Mags’, _“I agree. But I’m not the one calling the shots. Haymitch knows both of them better than I do. He knows what he’s doing.”_

 _“Haymitch … idiota.”_ Annie bites her lip and glances across the room at Haymitch, dozing in his chair. She doesn’t know what any of this is about, but thinks it might have something to do with the conversation on the roof of the Training Center a few nights before. Haymitch doesn’t seem to have heard what Mags said, nor does he stir when the old woman lets loose a rapid stream of words that Annie can’t understand, can barely hear.

 _“Mags, enough.”_ Finnick’s voice is louder as he interrupts, but then drops to a low whisper again. _“Compromise, okay? I’ll talk to Peeta.”_

_“What … say?”_

_“I don’t know. I’ll think of something that I can play off if he balks.”_

_“Important, boy.”_ Mags’ voice is urgent.

_“I know, Mags. I know.”_

_“Te amo, chico.”_

_“I know that, too, mi Corazon.”_ Mags snorts and they both fall silent. Finnick rolls to his back again and closes his eyes, reaches out to the ground and touches the trident that lies there, making sure it’s close at hand. _“I love you, too, Mags.”_

Finnick’s muscles gradually relax and his breathing and pulse slow as he drifts into sleep. For a while after that, Mags’ heart still appears from the readout to be tripping in her chest and she blows her nose again – still crying? – but a couple of minutes later, her vital signs level out, indicating that she, too, has drifted off.

Satisfied that they’re okay, Annie goes back to Haymitch, checks on him and his tributes. He is snoring, canted to one side in his chair, and doesn’t look at all comfortable. Peeta is still dead to the world and Katniss sits with her back against the same tree Finnick used as she watches over the clearing and the makeshift shelter. Annie resumes her seat beside the mentor for 12, oriented to keep an eye on his monitors while she looks out over the room at the other mentors and listens to the not-quite silence over her headset.

Lyme is talking to a woman Annie hasn’t yet met at the District 1 station, but keeps half her attention on her tributes. When she notices Annie watching, Lyme nods a greeting and the other woman glances Annie’s way before turning back toward Lyme. Watt is nodding off at the District 3 station; his elbow slips from the arm of the chair and he wakes, looking disoriented.

Seconds later, the sound of a cannon reaches them over the headsets, loud in comparison to what Annie’s been picking up from inside the shelter. She jumps up from her chair, startled. The clock over the main door reads 1:28. Around the room, most of the other mentors repeat Annie’s reaction, the only exception the man watching over the District 7 station, already on his feet. “What the hell?” he shouts and slams his hands on his console. “Blight! No! It’s just rain!”

As Haymitch sits up and scrubs a hand over his face, awakened by the report, Annie glances down: Katniss stands in the middle of the clearing, looking around as though she might see the source of the cannon report. Across the room, the mentor from 6 has his arm around the man from 7. He says something Annie can’t hear and 7 nods.

On the wall screen past the two men, three people stand over a man’s body, all four of them covered in what looks like blood. Even though the visual feed is high quality, they’re so obscured by the blood that it’s hard to tell if they’re male or female, let alone who’s who. The rain that falls is tinted red and it doesn’t wash away the blood, only seems to add to it. Steam rises from the fallen body in puffs that break apart when struck by the rain.

One of the people falls to their knees, pounds on the dead one’s chest and screams something. Annie isn’t good at reading lips, but when the person faces directly into the camera, she finally sees that it’s Johanna Mason. From her actions, it looks to Annie like she’s trying to resuscitate the man on the ground, but it isn’t working. Nor will it, if that was his cannon they all heard.

“Damn it.” Annie glances at Haymitch, standing beside her.

“Who was he?” she asks him, returning her attention to the District 7 monitors. Johanna stands, no longer screaming at the dead man. Instead, she’s trying to get a shoulder under one of the others’ arms, looking up into the bloody rain and pointing deeper into the jungle, gesturing for the smaller one to move. “And who is that with Johanna?”

“His name was Blight Rosticov and he could whittle the most amazing things from hunks of scrap wood.” There’s a thread of pain in Haymitch’s voice; it’s gone when he continues, and she thinks she might have imagined it. “The other two are from 3. The one Johanna’s trying to carry is Beetee. The woman is Wiress.”

Johanna shoves Beetee further into the trees; he clings to the trunk of one to keep from falling, but slips a little as Johanna dashes back for Wiress, reaching her just as the claw descends to lift the body of Blight Rosticov into the waiting hovercraft. Wiress clutches Blight’s hand and Johanna has to drag the older woman away from the body. And still the blood rain falls.

“Was it the force field?” Annie asks.

Haymitch nods. “Yeah, it must’ve been. Too bad Finnick wasn’t there to restart Blight’s heart, too.”

When Haymitch heads over to say something to the District 7 mentor, Annie returns to her own station, the faint sound of rain over her headset no longer a comfortable thing. Johanna and the others a solid, glistening red… All that blood, dripping into their mouths to choke them, their eyes to blind them… Annie shudders, suddenly queasy. She reaches for her glass of water, but it isn’t there. She shakes her head to rid herself of the awful images, and after checking on Finnick and Mags, runs out the door and down the stairs to the victors’ lounge and some ice water.

Two men are kissing in the corner of one of the couches when Annie hits the stairs. She quickly looks away, not wanting to invade what little privacy they have. The blood-stained image on the large television is still that of Johanna and the pair from 3 and the sound of the rain is loud, coming as it is from the microphones incorporated into their tracking devices.

 _“Damn it, Wiress, come_ on _!”_ Johanna shouts over the pounding rain. _“I do_ not _want to explain letting you walk into a_ fucking _force field, too!”_

Annie fills a glass from a dispenser on the wall near the base of the stairs as a woman on the television says, _“It’s a good thing Johanna pried Wiress off Blight’s body or District Three might be down a player, too.”_

 _“Has there ever been a tribute killed by a hovercraft?”_ Caesar Flickerman asks. _“I’m sure there must have been, but I do not recall.”_ Wondering if that man ever sleeps, Annie downs half her water, then tops her glass off as one of the men from the couch runs up the stairs past her, shouting Blight’s name. She doesn’t recognize him.

Her stomach feeling calmer, Annie leans back against the wall, glass in hand. The man remaining on the couch is watching her. “Farro, District Nine,” he introduces himself. “You’re the girl from Four? Annie?”

She nods. “Yes.” She closes her eyes for a moment against the unbidden image of two dark screens, a control console made irrelevant. “I’m sorry about your tributes.”

“Are you?” He glances at the television when the scene switches from Johanna’s smaller group to the Careers, to Gloss and Cashmere sitting next to each other, their heads together as they talk. “But both of yours are still in it. Good for you.” He laughs. “Caught me off guard, Odair declaring his love for you on national television. That was you he was talking about, right?”

Feeling heat rise in her cheeks, Annie looks away from him. There’s just enough light leaking from the lounge area into an open doorway for her to see someone asleep on a cot. She can’t make out who it is.

“Your first time mentoring?” Farro’s voice drags Annie’s attention back. “That’s rough. First time out and your tribute’s your boyfriend?” He shakes his head, but it isn’t clear if he’s truly sympathetic or if he’s mocking her. Her fingers tighten around the glass and she forces herself to relax her grip before she breaks it. Voices drift down from the top of the stairs, muffled by the closed door. A flicker of light draws her eyes as the scene changes to Finnick’s clearing where a wispy fog is beginning to roll in. Annie pushes away from the wall.

“I’d better go back.” Farro doesn’t respond, just looks at her. She feels him watching her as she walks up the stairs.

To avoid thinking about what happened to Blight, when she sits back down at her station, she watches Finnick sleep. He’s restless, limbs twitching in reaction to a dream that hasn’t yet become a nightmare, but she knows it’s just a matter of time. Even as she thinks it, the twitching becomes more of a thrashing as the nightmares invade his sleep. Wishing she could wake him, settle his fears, Annie lets her mind drift instead, going back over the list of things she could send to the arena for him. The sound of Katniss shouting frantically for the others to wake up snaps Annie back to the present as, on screen, the girl runs to the shelter, all but tripping over Finnick in the opening. _“Run! Run!”_

Annie shoots to her feet, her chair flying out from behind her as Finnick rolls to his knees and out of the opening of the hut, tridents in hand. A roiling fog creeps in from the jungle, much thicker than it was only a few minutes before, coiling between the trunks of the trees like a living thing. Springing to his feet, Finnick reaches into the shelter and drags Mags from it like she’s a rag doll. Swinging her over his shoulder, he runs in the opposite direction from that of the encroaching fog. Katniss drags a groggy Peeta from the hut seconds later and pushes him after Finnick and Mags.

“Haymitch!” Annie shouts. She turns and sees him leaning over his console on the other side of the room. “What do we do?” Over her headset, Annie hears Mags say something to Finnick in Castellan. Annie never felt the need to learn it before, but now wishes she had.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Haymitch tells her, loudly enough to hear past the headset, his voice and his expression bleak. “There’s nothing we _can_ do.”

Finnick runs, slipping between gaps in the trees. No longer slung over one shoulder, Mags’ arms are around both shoulders and his neck and she holds a pair of tridents. Finnick’s hands are busy hanging on to Mags’ legs, which are wrapped around his waist, a more secure position than before.

Haymitch’s words – _nothing we can do, nothing we can do_ – swirl in Annie’s head, tangle up with Katniss’ shouts to “Run!” She sways where she stands, light headed, closes her eyes and forces herself to breathe deeply and hold the breaths for a second before exhaling. She breathes as though she’s swimming a long course and as she concentrates solely on breathing, she hears Finnick’s voice from long ago, when she started to panic at the thought of performing for the Gamemakers the day of the individual training scores.

“Just breathe, Annie. You can do this.” His voice was calm, soothing, breaking down the building panic then as the memory does now. “I believe in you, even if you don’t believe in yourself.” It’s almost as though he’s there with her; she can all but feel his heat as he stands in front of her, his hands on her arms.

She opens her eyes, immediately focusing on Finnick’s vital signs and then Mags’. Both screens show their heart and respiration rates are off the charts; Mags’ heartbeat is particularly erratic. Annie blinks, tries desperately to recall what Martin said only a few days ago in regard to the practicalities of mentoring.

Martin.

She punches an orange button on the console in front of her. Instantly, a voice says over her headset, _“Yes, District 4?”_

“Send a runner to the District 4 suite in the Training Center and wake Martin Perch. He’s needed in the control room right away.”

_“Acknowledged.”_

There is nothing left but the brittle silence of an open connection and Annie cuts it off by pressing the orange button a second time. She returns her attention to the visual feed: Finnick and Mags stand in the middle of a clearing, smaller than that of their abandoned campsite. There’s no sign of the fog.

 _“Shit,”_ Finnick says, looking over his shoulder at Mags. _“We have to go back.”_ The old woman nods. Her vital signs on Annie’s console are alarming, her pulse racing and then skipping beats only to race again, her respiration far too shallow and rapid. Annie chokes down a sob as Mags says something else to Finnick in Castellan. After a moment’s hesitation, he starts back into the jungle, shouting for Katniss and Peeta to follow the sound of his voice. When he stops to get his bearings, still calling out to Katniss, he breathes too deeply and begins to cough, the sound painful.

 _“Go, hijo.”_ Mags’ voice is strained. _“She… needs you.”_ Finnick nods and begins to run again. He missteps and knocks his shoulder into a tree, but doesn’t stop. Mags cries out at the impact and one of his tridents falls from her hands, lost in the undergrowth.

 _“Sorry, Mags,”_ Finnick apologizes before shouting again for Katniss and Peeta. It isn’t long before Annie can see the pair from 12 at the edge of her screen. Finnick spots them, too, and picks up his pace. Peeta is on the ground, Katniss trying desperately to get him back to his feet, but he’s having a hard time of it. _“Hang on,”_ Finnick tells Mags as he drops down low enough to grab hold of Peeta’s arm and help Katniss lift him.

Tension thrums through Annie’s body as she dances from foot to foot, unable to stand still. For a few minutes, the four of them move through the jungle, retracing Finnick’s earlier path away from the fog. But then Finnick stumbles, catches himself before he falls, only to trip again a few seconds later.

 _“Leave me,”_ Mags whispers and on Annie’s console, Finnick’s heart rate spikes.

 _“I’m not leaving you.”_ Annie can’t understand the rest of what they say, but she can hear the pain and grief in Finnick’s voice, even if she can’t understand the words. He takes a few more staggering steps, slower than before, and trips once more. Tears fill Annie’s eyes and she blinks them back angrily; they’re not helping anything. And then Martin is there. He doesn’t waste any time asking for explanations, just squeezes Annie’s shoulder and sits down beside her, pulling on his headset.

Annie looks at him and asks, “Are we allowed to send them anything that could help? Something that could help them against that fog?” As if on cue, a tendril reaches toward Finnick and wraps wispy fingers around his wrist. Blisters rise where it touches his skin, but he doesn’t even look down.

With a glance at Mags’ vital signs, at the total available to them in the District 4 coffers, a readout Annie hasn’t had reason to use yet, Martin punches a blue button on the console and waits a second while someone picks up on the other end. He toggles a switch so Annie is included in the call as he asks, “Can we afford...?” He looks at Annie, eyebrows raised in question.

“A face mask and oxygen tank? Or, I guess, four face masks?” The man on the other end checks something on his system and then rattles off some numbers, the total only a little less than the amount available. Annie looks at Martin, who doesn’t look happy.

“How long will it take to get the tank and masks to them?” he asks.

There’s more tapping on a keyboard as the man researches. Annie looks down at her screen, sees Katniss stumble and fall, sending Mags rolling in front of her. Beyond her headset she hears Haymitch shout a curse. Tendrils of fog reach for Katniss as she struggles to get back to her feet. Finnick turns back for them, his grip on Peeta precarious. Katniss still can’t get up and Mags coughs, the sound harsh; her vital signs are doing crazy things on Annie’s console.

Katniss says something Annie doesn’t catch, but she hears Finnick’s response quite clearly, as well as the despair that threads through it: _“No. I can’t carry them both. My arms aren’t working.”_

More tapping on a keyboard on the other end of the line, then, _“Looks like it’ll take about half an hour.”_

“Thanks,” Martin says.

_“Do you want us to send it?”_

“No. There’s not enough time.” Martin’s eyes are on the screens, on two views from two different angles as Mags kisses Finnick on the mouth and then walks into the thickest part of the fog. Within seconds, she falls. Her heart rate is so elevated Annie thinks Mags’ heart has no choice but to burst. And then, less than a minute after she entered that fog, her cannon fires and static replaces the image of her body, lying twitching on the ground, her blue jumpsuit melted away in patches. Her screen goes dark. Her vital signs fall to zero, fade away.

Annie’s breath catches in her chest. “No.” She takes a step toward the now dark console, stumbles. Falls to her knees. Falls further, her chin clipping the edge of the console on the way down. She folds over herself, covers her head with her hands, knocking her headset askew. “No no no no no no no.” Finnick’s harsh breathing in her left ear, punctuated by tiny whimpers, a guttural sob, sings a counterpoint to Annie’s denial.

“Oh, Mags.” Martin’s voice as he slides from his chair to the floor beside Annie. He pulls her into his lap and wraps his arms around her, rocks her. “Oh, Mags.”

Across the room, Haymitch says, eloquent as ever, “Fuck.”


	27. The Light in Me Will Guide You Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few lines of dialogue in the arena are directly from Catching Fire and thus belong entirely to Ms. Collins. I'm just borrowing them along with her wonderful characters. Thank you, Ms. Collins!

**Chapter Twenty-Seven – The Light in Me Will Guide You Home**

“Are you going to tell me what’s bothering you, boy?” Mags asked, rocking gently back and forth on the bench swing. Finnick lay on his back on the porch, his feet resting on the swing, keeping it in motion. It was a hot day, unusually so for October. School hadn’t ended for the day, and yet Finnick was on Victors’ Island with Mags. He’d stolen a skiff from the public wharf to do it, but finishing out the day at school was something he just couldn’t face. Not today. And he hadn’t really stolen the little boat; he planned to return it as soon as he left Mags. She prodded his hip with a bare foot.

“What do you mean?” he asked her, trying to play it off, but who was he kidding? It was Mags and she never let anyone get away with anything. She knew things weren’t all right in Finnick’s world. Knew that maybe better than anyone. But he tried anyway. “Nothing’s bothering me.”

“Finnick.” That was all she said, not putting any particular emphasis on it. Nothing but his name. He sighed.

“It’s just…” He let out a huff of breath before inhaling deeply again, trying to snatch a thread of order from his jumbled thoughts. “I don’t feel all that different, Mags. It’s still me when I look in the mirror, but…” His voice trailed away and it was Mags’ turn to sigh.

“But what, boy?”

He pushed the words out before he could second guess himself. “Trevor won’t talk to me anymore. Marco’ll answer if I say something to him, but there’s always someplace else he has to be _right now_. Caileigh won’t even look at me.” Caileigh. He’d almost worked up the courage to ask her to the school dance just before Feathery Phineas drew his name from the reaping ball. Finnick shifted his head so he could look up at Mags, but she was backlit, he couldn’t see her face and he had no idea what she was thinking. He closed his eyes and started pushing against the swing, making it move in a longer arc. Mags didn’t try to slow it.

“Even the teachers treat me like... I don’t know, like I’ll blow up if they look at me wrong or something.” Opening his eyes again, he stared at the narrow boards that made up the roof of the porch. The paint was starting to peel; maybe he should fix that for her. “Mrs. Juarez used to call on me all the time, when I wasn’t paying attention, but now it’s like I don’t even exist.” Frowning, he looked up at her again. “Was it like that for you, Mags? After your Games?”

“It was like that for all of us, Finnick.” She shifted on the swing, pulling her legs up so that she could stretch out along the length of it. “I know you don’t feel much different, boy, but those around you will always see you differently, no matter what you do. You’re a victor. You know what it’s like to kill. You know what it’s like to touch death, to look it in the eye. Whether we want them to or not, those things change us.”

Finnick’s eyes burned and his throat felt suddenly thick, like there was something stuck in it that he couldn’t swallow past. “So that’s it? My friends all hate me now? I’m some kind of monster because I lived? Isn’t that what I was supposed to do?” He hated the way the pitch of his voice grew higher as he spoke.

It took her a long time to respond and when she did, it wasn’t what Finnick wanted to hear. “Some aren’t strong enough to deal with it, boy. Either those who come back or those they come back to.” She reached over and closed her fingers around one of his ankles, still resting on the front of the swing. “But you, Finnick, you’re strong. You know how to adapt. You can handle whatever this life throws at you. You’ll make new friends. And maybe, someday, those old friends will come around. They’ll see that you may have changed, but you’re still Finnick.”

Something tugs at his ankles – something that isn’t Mags – jerky, uneven motion pulling him across damp sand that piles up under him, insinuates itself into his clothes to scrape his acid-burned skin. Finnick moans as the memory fades, wrenched harshly back to the present by excruciating pain. Awake now, he floats on waves of agony that swell in an instant and gradually recede. He opens his eyes. Stars glitter overhead in a sky so deep a blue it’s nearly black, diamonds on velvet. There are voices nearby, rough and raspy but recognizable as they speak about him. Katniss. Peeta. But not Mags. Never again Mags. He sucks in a deep breath and almost chokes on it, strangling on a sob.

His head rests in Katniss’ lap, the rest of him submerged in the water that surrounds the Cornucopia and its little island. Finnick thinks he should make a smart remark about the placement of his head, but he can’t force his mouth to work and his throat is still too raw to make much more than embarrassing little whimpers and moans. He can’t bring himself to joke just then, anyway.

Peeta pours water gently over Finnick’s head from his cupped hands and he is again awash in pain, nearly blacks out because of it. When it subsides, he pushes himself up from Katniss’ lap and she and Peeta help him to lean forward. He pulls his legs under him into something approaching a sitting position, leans further forward. Katniss and Peeta hold him steady, one on each arm, and Finnick submerges his head, opens his eyes under the salt water and sucks in a mouthful of it. He swishes it around in his mouth, salty ground glass, before coming back up for air and spitting the water out. He does it again and the pain is less. A third time, and there’s nothing more than a little discomfort.

“Better,” he tells them and is happy that his voice is more than just a croak. Looking down at himself, he sees that he’s no longer wearing the blue jumpsuit. He vaguely recalls one of them cutting it off of him, leaving him just his undershirt and briefs. His shoes are gone, too, but he has no idea when or where. Peeta stands, his own jumpsuit a tattered mess.

“Stay with him,” Peeta tells Katniss. “I’m going to go tap for water.” While Katniss unfastens the spile from her belt and hands it to Peeta, Finnick crawls deeper into the water. When he can, he starts to swim, going farther out until he can dive under, a spiraling corkscrew down and down. He surfaces once, spitting out another mouthful of salt water, only to plunge back under again.

There are small fish glowing silver and blue, not brightly enough to compete with the moonlight on the water, but down in it, traveling in schools, they’re beautiful. Too small to bother trying to catch to eat, Finnick plays with them for a bit, chasing them, breaking up the groupings and watching them reform. They don’t seem to be dangerous. When he feels the burn in his lungs, from lack of oxygen, rather than the Gamemakers’ toxic fog, he shoots back to the surface beside Katniss, startling her.

“Don’t do that.”

“What?” he laughs. “Come up or stay under?”

“Either. Neither. Whatever.” Grinning, Finnick ducks under for a second and comes back up spitting water at her. With an irritated look, she turns toward shore, clearly intending to abandon him now that he’s no longer some wounded creature to protect, but he stops her.

“C’mon. I want to show you something.” Treading water, her expression is skeptical.

“I’m not sure I want to see anything you’d want to show me.”

He shoots her an exaggerated leer and drops his voice. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours…” The effect is somewhat less than it could be, given the hoarseness of his voice and the lack of conviction. Katniss sends a damn good splash at his face and he laughs. “No, seriously. I think you’ll like this.” Somewhat reluctantly, she swims closer.

“Lead on.”

He holds up a finger to let her know to wait for a couple of seconds while he submerges his face in the water. One of the schools of luminous fish is about six feet to their right. Popping back up he tells her, “Make sure you keep your eyes open.” He takes her hand and pulls her along behind him toward the school, diving under. As soon as she sees them, there’s a slight tug at his hand and he lets her go as he propels himself toward the fish, scattering them so she can watch the light show as they reform, underwater fireworks.

Surfacing again, Katniss asks, “Are they safe?”

He shrugs. “I don’t think they’re mutts. I was playing with them for a while, and they didn’t do anything normal fish wouldn’t do.”

Finnick laughs as Katniss takes a deep breath and, with a smile on her face, dives back in.

xXx

Annie doesn’t keep track of the time as she sits in Martin’s arms on the control room floor. She simply concentrates on breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Her headset falls to lie on the floor beside Martin’s knee. She listens to the other mentors, some of the voices familiar to her, most not, as they talk to him about Mags, just as they all did to varying degrees when the roll call of the dead played a few hours ago or, more recently, when Blight died. Annie doesn’t tune it out, but neither does she participate. It’s too painful.

“They’re out of the fog, Martin.” That’s Haymitch, calling from his own station, his voice tight, and it occurs to her that Martin was watching over Annie rather than Finnick, a testament to the fact that they are helpless to do anything for those in the arena. Tears prick at Annie’s eyes and she blinks, but her eyelids are sticky, dried out; she’s been staring at a scuff mark on the carpet for who knows how long and the tears she shed for Mags have long since dried, been replaced and dried again. She reaches for her headset and Martin’s arms loosen.

“Back with us?” he asks. She slides from his lap to sit apart from him, still facing him.

“I never left,” she tells him as she slips the headset over her ears. Immediately she hears Finnick’s harsh, pain-filled breathing, punctuated by little sounds she doubts he’s aware he’s making.

 _“We’ve got to get more of him into the water,”_ Katniss says, her voice muffled, and Annie looks up at the screen beyond Martin, sees the moonlight reflecting from the water’s surface, the ripples Katniss and Peeta make as they drag Finnick into the water a little bit at a time. Reassured that he’s alive and receiving help, even if it isn’t from her or Martin, Annie rubs the dried tears from her eyes.

She starts to roll to her feet but gives it up when the motion sets her head to pounding. Settling back to the floor, Annie brings the heels of her hands up to press against her temples, feeling as though that’s the only way she can keep her brain from exploding from her head.

“Annie?”

She looks up at Martin and tries to smile, but she’s pretty sure it comes off as more of a grimace. “I’m fine, Martin. It’s just a headache.” She wonders if it could be a legacy of the concussion, but it’s just as likely to be a result of too much crying.

 _“Better,”_ Finnick says in Annie’s ear, his voice hoarse but more than welcome. His companions let go of his arms and sit back, and then Peeta pushes up to his feet, his artificial leg making it more awkward than it should be.

 _“Stay with him. I’m going to go tap for water.”_ Annie pushes to her feet and drops into her chair as Peeta splashes through the water to the beach and then heads toward the trees. Katniss watches him go while Finnick swims farther out and disappears beneath the surface.

Over her headset all she hears is white noise. Her arena feed shows an underwater view of Finnick playing with a school of small, luminous fish; the whole scene has an almost eerie blue glow about it, but she can see Finnick and the fish quite clearly. She wonders if they had the same sort of underwater cameras during her Games. She doesn’t remember much of what went into the tape they showed during her final interview with Caesar Flickerman.

 _“Miss Cresta?”_ A woman’s voice cuts through the audio feed.

“Yes?”

_“I have a call for you. May I send it to you?”_

“Sure?” Annie looks around the room for Martin, spots him near the District 2 station talking to Lyme. Neither of them is wearing their headset.

_“Go ahead, Mr. Josephus.”_

There is a click and then a man says, _“Am I speaking to Anwyn Cresta?”_

“I’m Annie, yes.”

_“Ah, good. Annie, then. I’m so pleased your Finnick is still in the running.”_

Annie closes her eyes, wishing the man would get to whatever his point might be and then just go away. “Thank you,” she says aloud.

 _“Your voice is as lovely as you are, my dear.”_ Annie frowns, but he continues before she can think of a response to that or to more than wonder how he knows what she looks like. _“I want to make a pledge toward sponsoring Finnick, now that I know that money will indeed go to him.”_ He chuckles. _“I have quite a bit riding on that young man already.”_ Annie sucks in a deep breath and holds it, trying hard not to make a sound that might tell him how horrified she is by this whole conversation.

When she has her voice under control, she says, “Thank you, Mr. … Josephus?”

_“Yes, yes.”_

Trying to remember what Martin said about sponsorship calls, Annie asks, “Is there something in particular you’d like to send?”

 _“Why, yes, there is. If you can find some kind of salve or ointment that might repair the damage to his skin, that would be perfect. Need to protect my investment, after all.”_ Annie’s eyes widen and she shudders. All this awful man wants is for Finnick to look pretty, not to take away his pain or to heal his injuries.

“All right, Mr. Josephus. I’ll transfer you back to the sponsorship center and they’ll take your pledge.” Annie can’t hit the transfer button fast enough. When the odious man is gone, she folds over herself in her chair and holds her head in her hands, but she doesn’t have the luxury of staying like that for long. The release of the sponsorship call brings the audio feed from the arena back online.

 _“… toward us quietly, so you don’t startle it.”_ That’s Katniss’ voice, tense but trying hard to stay calm. Annie looks up. The girl and Finnick are side by side on the beach, weapons ready. Katniss looks toward Peeta, several yards away and just inside the edge of the jungle. As Annie watches, Peeta starts to walk toward them and Finnick turns slightly to the side, tightening his grip on his trident, ready to use it.

Creatures with fur of an orange-brown color in the moonlight seem to explode from the trees, swarm out onto the beach after Peeta, all fangs and claws and raised hackles. They make no sound.

 _“Mutts!”_ Katniss shouts as she and Finnick charge toward Peeta and the attacking muttations.

In the control room, Annie cries, “Martin!” _Oh, please, not again_ , she thinks as he runs to their station, putting his headset back on as he goes.

Over the next few minutes, every time Finnick spears one of the unnatural animals and flings it off his trident, another one is there to replace it. Katniss brings down mutt after mutt with her arrows, never misses a shot, but still they keep coming. Peeta slashes as many with his knife as Finnick kills with his trident, but the knife is less effective and they sometimes attack again before Peeta or one of the others can kill them.

“What are they?” Annie asks as one of the creatures slashes at Finnick’s face. He ducks and spears the thing in the chest and throat.

“Some sort of monkey,” Lyme says from behind Annie’s chair. Annie didn’t realize the older woman had followed Martin over. Glancing over her shoulder, Annie sees the woman from 1 is there as well. Rae is closer to the District 4 station than to 3, although she glances at her own monitors fairly frequently.

“They’re orangutans,” the woman from 1 says, then, looking at Annie, “Gamemaker enhanced, of course. I’m Silke, 49th Games.”

In the arena, the three humans move closer together, standing back to back to back to fight off the attacks until they’re surrounded by bloody piles of fur, and still more orangutans pour from the jungle to replace the fallen.

Katniss shoots her last arrow, shouting, _“Peeta! Your arrows!”_

To Finnick’s left, Peeta turns toward Katniss and reaches up to free the sheath he carries just as an orangutan dives straight for his chest. Finnick, struggling against an orange muttation stuck to his trident, can’t help him, but then a blue and blonde blur screams past another pair of murderous orangutans, flinging herself between Peeta and his attacker.

The woman is bleeding from dozens of slashes on her arms and torso, is still screaming as the orangutan bites into her chest and neck, doing its best to tear her apart.

“Oh, Linna,” Rae says, bringing both hands up to cover her mouth. Peeta drops the sheath and, himself screaming in rage, brings his knife down on the mutt’s back, stabbing at it until it finally lets go at about the same time Finnick dislodges the mutt from his trident. Peeta kicks the dead thing away, and as if that’s some kind of signal, the other mutts stop their attack. They fade rapidly back into the trees as silently as they came.

Katniss picks up her dropped sheath, removes an arrow, and tells Peeta to get the woman, covering him while Finnick, his back to Katniss and his bloody trident in a firm grip, watches the trees. Peeta carries Linna to where Katniss and Finnick stand and lays her flat on the ground. Finnick backs away, shaking his head and keeping his eyes on the dying woman as the other two try to help her. He finally screws his eyes shut for a second and then walks off toward the trees, pulling Katniss’ arrows from mutt corpses as he goes. When Linna’s cannon fires a few minutes later, Finnick flinches, dropping a couple of the arrows he collected.

Once it becomes clear that the mutts are truly gone, no longer a threat, and that Finnick will be okay, Martin says, “Why don’t you get some rest, Annie? I can handle things here for a while.”

Annie thinks about it for a minute. She is tired – although drained might be a better word. “When should I be back?” She spins her chair around once to see what’s happening with the other mentors, but there doesn’t seem to be anything exciting going on in the arena just then. A good thing, as it’s been an eventful few hours.

“Eight?” Martin suggests. “We can start regular shifts then. Twelve hours on, twelve off.”

She swivels her chair to face Martin. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Haymitch lean back in his chair, stretching his legs out in front of him and resting his head on the back of the chair. He looks as though he’s settling in to sleep and it doesn’t look at all comfortable. Annie frowns.

“Could we make that a little shorter?” she asks, turning toward Haymitch and nodding. “If we do eight hour shifts instead, we could give Haymitch some breaks. He needs to sleep, too.” Martin doesn’t answer right away as he turns toward Haymitch.

“It’s not usually done, helping out another district like that, but they _are_ allies and there is precedence. I don’t _think_ it’s against the rules.” He grins at Annie. “You know what they say.” Annie shakes her head and Martin continues. “It’s easier to ask forgiveness than to get permission.”

With a glance at the monitors, seeing Finnick hand what appears to be at least a dozen gory arrows to Katniss, Annie promises Martin that she’ll be back at 8:00. On her way out the door, she sees him walk over and kick Haymitch’s foot, hears him say, “Go get some sleep, man. I’ll roust you if anything happens with our kids.”

Rather than returning to the suite in the Training Center, Annie curls up on one of the big, soft couches in the common room. She drifts for a while, half hearing snippets of conversation between some of the other off-duty mentors and visiting victors, before finally falling asleep. She dreams of blood and acid fog, of debilitating thirst and silent orangutans, and wakes just short of a scream when Coriolanus Snow beheads her district partner. Erik’s head falls at Annie’s feet, revealing Finnick’s face.

She opens her eyes and sits up, breathing hard, her attention drawn almost immediately to the big television on the far wall. It’s not showing the Games, but rather a tabloid news program. To either side of the plastic-looking program host are two photographs, one a professional shot of Finnick’s smiling face and the other of Annie, a photo that looks like someone took it while she was at lunch with Cinna and Portia a few days ago.

 _“In other news, interesting tidbits have surfaced regarding a relationship beyond that of mentor and tribute between District Four’s Anwyn Cresta, the elusive victor of the 70th Hunger Games, and the Capitol’s beloved adopted son, Finnick Odair.”_ Several photographs of herself and Finnick appear on the screen, one after the other. The program lingers longest on one taken before the pre-Games interviews that shows Finnick and Annie in each other’s arms, their eyes closed, Finnick resting his cheek on her head.

 _“Rumors have been flying ever since a video clip surfaced two days ago.”_ The scene changes to a portion of the video Snow showed her in his office less than 24 hours before. As soon as it starts to play, Annie gasps. The video is dark and shadowy, the sound nothing more than heavy breathing. In regard to the lighting, it’s very different from the version Snow showed Annie, nothing that could positively identify either party, although it’s quite clear what they’re doing together. She can only assume that it becomes more obvious who the participants are further into the clip, because a moment later the channel abruptly changes.

“Hey! I was watching that! Why’d you turn it off?” Shale from District 2 protests.

Silke waves the remote she holds toward Annie, who feels her cheeks grow warm as the blood rises in them. She can’t help it when she buries her face in her hands for a moment. She forces them back down to her sides, stands up and walks as calmly as she can up to the control room. Martin takes one look at her red face and asks her what’s wrong.

Annie shrugs, but doesn’t answer his question as she resumes her place at the console, only a little early for her shift. She tries to ignore the dark screen beside the one that shows Finnick sitting on the beach with his arms wrapped around his drawn up knees, the tracks of tears clearly visible in the early morning sunlight as he watches over his sleeping allies.

xXx

For the second time that night, Finnick keeps watch while Katniss and Peeta sleep. This time he sits on the beach doodling shapes in the wet sand, not wanting to find out the hard way what else might lurk within the trees that border it. This time there is no shelter. No organized camp site. No creature comforts, however slight or cobbled together.

This time there is no Mags.

Tears blur his vision, as they’ve done off and on for the past couple of hours, and he bites his lip to keep from sobbing like a child. He wants to. He wants to scream and shout and throw an all-out tantrum. He wants to smash things. He’d almost welcome another attack by those damned monkeys; at least when he was fighting them, he didn’t have time to think.

For him, there’s never been a time when there was no Mags. One of his earliest memories is of riding on her shoulders at an Odair gathering, back when his grandparents were alive. Even as the tears start to fall, Finnick smiles.

Mags had walked out into the waves and her unofficial husband Ewen – she’d refused to marry him, had claimed to not want the one child they had together, all because of Snow and what he could do to them – Ewen had followed close behind. When it was waist deep, Mags had tossed Finnick into the water and she and Ewen made a game of it, teaching baby Finnick to swim. He was maybe two years old? Ewen had disappeared when Finnick was four, so it had to have been before that.

Once that memory surfaces, others follow, hard and fast. Mags laughing on countless occasions. Mags dancing, also on countless occasions, a brightly colored skirt belling around her knees, sometimes green, sometimes purple or blue or fuchsia, but more often than not red. Mags teaching Annie to dance, the two of them mixing up their signals and falling laughing in a tangle of limbs only to get right back up and start over again. Mags calling him an idiot the day he’d kissed Annie that first time. Finnick closes his eyes and lets the tears and the memory wash over him.

He’d been walking along the beach just after dawn his first morning back from weeks in the Capitol, and when he turned around to head back to his house, Annie was there. Without a thought to what he was doing, he’d gone to her, took her by the hand and they’d walked back toward the row of houses together, not even talking, just being.

Annie had stopped to pick up a piece of driftwood and when she decided it wasn’t something she needed to add to her collection, dropping it back to the sand, Finnick had leaned in and kissed her. For those few seconds, he felt whole. He felt like he was home. And then he’d felt a hunger like nothing he’d ever experienced before and it terrified him. He ran, leaving her there. He knew that he had hurt her, but he couldn’t go back.

Instead he’d gone to Mags’ house, but when he got there, he couldn’t make himself knock on the door. Not knowing what to do, his mind a mess, he sat on her swing and rocked. That’s where Mags found him hours later. It was still morning, but only just. She sat down beside him on the swing and put her arm around his shoulders.

Neither of them said a word until he blurted out, “I kissed Annie, Mags.”

“And _that’s_ what has you so down?” she asked with a squeeze, amused.

“We have no future. He’ll hurt her. If he finds out how I feel about her, how much I need her, he’ll destroy her.”

When she responded to that, the amusement was gone. “You are an idiot, Finnick Odair.” That had made him look up and finally meet Mags’ eyes. “Boy, I know from experience how awful a prison that kind of thinking can be. Don’t you dare fall into that trap.” When he started to protest, she gave him that look she was so good at. He stopped trying to talk and just listened. “The world doesn’t revolve around you, boy. Best you remember that. Your Annie is just as much a victor as you are, which means she’s just as much at the mercy of the president. His choice to not sell her the way he does you is just that. It’s his choice. And he doesn’t make it based on how you might react.

“There isn’t a reason in this world you and Annie shouldn’t take what happiness you can while you can.”

Finnick had stared at her, searching her face. “You really believe that,” he finally said.

“Yes, I do.” Mags sighed deeply then and relaxed against the back of the swing. She pushed Finnick’s head down onto her shoulder and they sat swinging for a time, then, “Finnick, both of you deserve to live, but you have to figure out what that means for yourselves.” She turned her head to kiss his hair. “Don’t wait too long.”

In the arena, Finnick surges to his feet, dashes the tears away and walks over to a shock of that same grass he and Mags wove into a shelter only the afternoon before. It’s too much. If he can just keep busy, he won’t keep thinking about Mags, won’t have to worry about Annie. Won’t have to be afraid.

Toward that end, as the sun rises in the pink sky, he weaves several water-tight bowls to collect water and leaves them by Katniss’ head for when she and Peeta wake. He returns to weaving, this time a mat that he secures to small branches cut from the nearby trees and jammed into the sand, creating a screen over their heads and sheltering them from the sun as the morning heat grows. Then he’s off collecting shellfish, gathering them up into a large bowl that he repossesses from the stash he left with his sleeping allies. Anything and everything to keep busy, to keep from succumbing again to the pain of Mags’ death, to the fear of what’s yet to come.

xXx

For the entire time that Annie stares at her screen, watching Finnick mourn and then, in a burst of energy, weave and weave and weave, she tries again to think of something she can send to let him know she’s here and watching over him, that he’s not alone. He’s still reeling from Mags’ loss; she feels it, too, still not quite believing that she’ll never see Mags again. The smell of coffee invades her thoughts and she looks up.

“Morning, sweetheart.” Haymitch hands her a cup of coffee and offers her some fresh, sweet-smelling bread to go with it. “It’s pretty good, if you want some. It’s supposed to have cinnamon in it, but I don’t hold the lack against it.”

He smiles and Annie blinks as the sight and smell of the bread, the loss of Mags, and her own need to send a message to Finnick weave themselves together and the control room fades away around her. She is back in the kitchen of the house on Victors’ Island that she lived in for those first few months following her victory. It was never her home, just a place for the Capitol to send her mail, but that doesn’t mean that nothing of importance ever happened there.

It was only a few days after Finnick told her the truth about his visits to the Capitol, only a few days after he told her he loved her. Leaning back against her kitchen counter, the phone gripped tightly in her hand, Annie listened to it ring on the other end.

 _“Hello?”_ Mags sounded distracted when she answered and Annie heard other voices in the background. A lot of other voices.

“Mags? It’s Annie.” Maybe calling her wasn’t such a good idea…

 _“Well, good morning, Annie! What can I do for you?”_ That was one of the things Annie liked best about Mags: she hardly ever asked Annie if she was okay or what was wrong. She made her feel like a normal girl again.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Mags. Finnick’s coming over for dinner tonight and he told me once that he really likes the bread you make, the one with the seaweed? I was hoping you could tell me your recipe?”

 _“Connor, stop that,”_ Mags said to someone on her end of the call. _“I’m sorry, Annie, what was that again?”_

“The recipe for your seaweed bread? I want to make it for Finnick.” Someone near Mags shrieked and Annie nearly dropped the phone.

 _“Connor Moreno, you are not too old for me to tan your hide, boy!”_ Mags’ shout was muffled and Annie thought she must have covered the microphone with her hand. _“Annie, I’m sorry. It’s chaos here.”_

“I could call back later,” Annie offered.

 _“Nonsense. Are you ready to write?”_ Annie caught herself nodding in response as if Mags could see it. _“Annie?”_

“Sorry, Mags. I’m ready.” The old woman had rattled off ingredients and measurements, mixing times and kneading instructions and resting times, oven temperatures and baking times. Halfway through, Annie dropped her phone, but Mags didn’t notice. Twice she had to ask her to repeat something because of the noise and conversations in the background as Mags’ family tried to pull her this way and that. But Annie wrote down everything she thought she heard and the dough looked right and behaved the way it should, so she put it in the oven and hoped for the best. It was supposed to be a casual date, their first, nothing fancy, but she wanted everything to be perfect, or as close as she could get it.

By the time Finnick arrived, his first time in her house since he helped her move, the bread was nearly finished and the gumbo was simmering on the stove. She hadn’t had a chance to change clothes, so she was still in the tank top and shorts she’d worn all day. The timer for the bread sounded simultaneously with Finnick’s knock on her door. She punched the button to silence it and ran to let him in, suddenly nervous.

She opened the door and he was there, t-shirt and shorts and bare feet and she no longer felt bad about not changing. He smiled at her and her heart rate doubled. The alarm for the bread sounded again as he handed her a bottle of wine. “I have to get that,” she told him as she reached for the wine.

“Go,” he said and gestured with the bottle. “I’ve got this.” She dashed back into the kitchen and she heard him close the door. Taking the bread from the oven, Annie hoped the closing door meant that he was following her, but feared that he had turned and run the other way.

“That smells fantastic,” he said from the doorway and she shot him a relieved smile over her shoulder as she set the bread on a cooling rack and picked up a spoon to stir the gumbo.

“I hope it tastes okay. They’re both new recipes. You don’t mind if I experiment on you, do you?”

His voice was much closer when he said, “You can experiment on me anytime,” and Annie didn’t think he was referring entirely to cooking.

She felt him before he ever touched her, the heat of his body as he moved behind her, the warmth of his breath on her skin. “Put the spoon down, Annie.” His voice was low and sent a warm wave through her body.

Annie laid the spoon down beside the pot of gumbo and turned around. Her arm brushed against his chest, he was so close to her. “What—?”

“I’m going to kiss you,” he announced, his eyes traveling from her lips to meet her gaze and her mouth went dry. She was between him and the counter and there was barely any space at all between their bodies. He reached up with both hands to cup her face, threading his fingers through her hair, stroking her mouth with his thumb. “Tell me to stop,” he whispered and she shivered, cold where he wasn’t, burning where he was. “Tell me to stop, Annie, and I will.” His lips ghosted over hers.

“Why would I do that?” Her eyelids fluttered as he slowly traced her mouth with his tongue. “I don’t want you to stop.”

He smiled and her heart tripped in her chest. “I was hoping you’d say that,” he said and brought his mouth down on hers. For a moment, hardly believing that this was truly happening and not just another daydream, Annie didn’t move. He licked at her lips. “Open your mouth, Annie.”

Annie opened her mouth for him and he took full and immediate advantage, licking at the roof of her mouth, at her teeth, sucking at her tongue. She lifted her arms then, slid them around his neck, holding his head there as she rose up on her toes to get closer to him, dragging her breasts against his chest. They kissed forever, hunger and heat, and Finnick pushed the cooling bread farther back and to the side until it stopped against the wall. He lifted Annie up onto the counter; the marble was cold under her bare legs, but the new position was better for her neck, not so big a difference in their heights. He dragged her closer and she wrapped her legs around his hips. He deepened their kiss, something she wouldn’t have thought possible.

 _This is real. This is happening. This is real. This is happening._ The thoughts chased each other in her brain.

And then he pulled back from her, just a little. "I didn't mean for this to happen," he said, his voice rough, even as he unfastened her shorts and pulled them and her underwear off, dropping them to the floor, leaned in to kiss her again as he undid his own shorts. “You can still tell me to stop,” he breathed into her mouth.

She took his face in her hands, forced him to look at her. His eyes were dilated, darkened with desire, his lips wet and swollen from her kisses. “Don’t stop.” He pushed against her hands until he could lick at her collarbones and then lower, grazing first one nipple and then the other through the fabric of her tank and bra with his teeth. “Please don’t stop.”

Finnick made a sound deep in his throat then that was half laugh and half growl; it sent electricity shooting through her. He pulled back and skimmed his hands over her ribs beneath her tank, hooked his fingers under her bra and lifted shirt and bra over her head, dropping them to the floor to join the rest of her clothing. It was nothing like the way it was almost two years ago when she was with Kieron, who was as unsure of what they were doing and how to do it as she was. _I’m naked and with Finnick Odair and he knows exactly what he’s doing_ , she thinks and she’d be embarrassed and trying to hide if it were anyone else but if it were anyone else she wouldn’t be naked on her kitchen counter or lifting his shirt up to lick at his skin, at the hard planes of his chest, at his nipples.

He pulled his shirt from her hands, yanked it over his head and sent it flying, pushed her back and pulled her forward at the same time until he could fit himself between her legs and she could feel him, hot and hard, right _there_ , and he must have taken off his shorts, but she didn’t know when and then he leaned over her and sucked her left nipple into his mouth and slid one finger inside her, two, three, stroking her and Annie couldn’t think anymore, only feel.

Sliding an arm behind her back, Finnick pulled her right to the edge of the counter and she gripped the marble, bracing herself as he pushed into her, stretching her and filling her. She moaned and when he stopped moving, she hooked her ankles together behind his back and pushed her body upward. She wanted his mouth on hers, his tongue on hers and—

“Annie, stop.” His voice was uneven, breathless.

“What?” She blinked. She didn’t want to stop. “But…” He rested his forehead against hers and, given that he stopped moving and wanted her to stop, she expected him to pull away from her and she tried to push down the disappointment that filled her. But then he laughed.

“Oh, Annie, the look on your face…” He grinned and then took her mouth again, kissing her with the same hunger as before. “I don’t want you to stop completely, just for a minute.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s just… It’s too fast. If we don’t stop for a minute, it’ll be all over and you won’t get much out of it.”

“You mean…?”

“I’m too close.” She smiled then, nipped at his lower lip and tightened her legs, forcing him deeper, and he gasped an involuntary “ _Fuck!_ ” A feeling of power, of control flowed through Annie. Finnick’s eyes widened when she did it again and then his fingers were digging into her hips as he thrust into her hard and fast. She arched her back and pushed against him, taking him deeper still and then his body stiffened against her as he cried out his release, half collapsing against her and her kitchen counter.

With a wicked grin she said, “You were right. You _were_ close.” That startled a laugh out of him and he bit her shoulder, found her with his thumb and circled and rubbed until her own release broke over her like ocean waves and she melted, boneless in his arms.

Annie was still floating on a cloud when he pulled out of her. He ducked his head and kissed her again, long and slow. When he lifted her in his arms and started to carry her from the kitchen, she finally remembered “The gumbo! It’ll burn…”

He didn’t say anything, just backtracked and reached out to turn off the stove. “Your bedroom?” he asked and sucked at the pulse point in her neck. She somehow managed to tell him where it was, although she wasn’t entirely certain if he was asking where or whether he should take her there. Either way, they spent the next few hours in her room, in her bed, until hunger – food hunger, not each-other hunger – drove them back to the kitchen and their forgotten meal.

While Annie re-heated the gumbo, Finnick tore off a hunk of bread. “Mmm… This is good. Family recipe?” He took another bite and Annie shook her head.

“No. I called Mags this morning for hers.” He raised an eyebrow.

“This isn’t Mags’ recipe.”

Annie went still and nearly dropped her spoon. _Oh, no._ “It’s not?” The chaos on the other end of the phone… She went over everything Mags said as Finnick leaned back against the counter until he could see her face. He took another bite and tore off a small piece, offering it to Annie.

“No. There’s no garlic in hers.” When Annie didn’t accept the offered bite, he said, “Hey. That’s not a problem. This is good.” He bumped the piece of bread against her lips and grinned. “Try it.” Still feeling a little upset, she let him place the bread on her tongue; when she closed her mouth to chew the salty, crusty bread with its hint of garlic, he stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. “Best seaweed bread _I’ve_ had,” he told her and he sounded as though he meant it.

As she becomes aware of her surroundings again, Annie hits the button to contact the fulfillment center. _“Go ahead, District Four,”_ the voice on the other end says.

“I need you to drop a loaf of District Four’s seaweed bread.” The man asks her to wait a moment while he checks on that, and when he returns he rattles off a list of ingredients. “Yes, that’s it. But I need you to add garlic to the mix, too.”

_“Garlic?”_

“Yes. It’s very important that the bread smells and tastes of garlic. Don’t change anything else, just add two teaspoons of garlic powder.”

 _“Okay. It’ll be there as soon as the kitchens can get it baked.”_ He tells her how much it will cost but Annie tunes him out. The number is negligible compared to the balance of funds listed on her screen, and that balance is higher than it was a few hours ago, so Annie thanks him and ends the call just as Katniss looks up at the sky and directly addresses Haymitch. Not long after, a tube of something floats suspended from a silver parachute directly into Katniss’ open hand.

The tube turns out to be some kind of ointment that Katniss and Finnick apply to the acid burns, both looking hideous by the time they’re done, and Annie thinks that awful man from that call got his wish, although it came from District 12, not 4. Finnick comes up with the idea to wake Peeta and scare him with their grotesque appearance, and as Annie watches, he and Katniss fall backward from a startled Peeta, laughing so hard they can’t even sit up.

When another silver parachute with a loaf of green bread drops to the beach a few minutes later, Annie sees from the way Finnick holds the bread, breathing in the scent of it, reluctant for a moment to let it go, that he understands the message.

Something hits the back of Annie’s head and she turns around to see Haymitch at his console, grinning lopsidedly at her. He gives her a thumbs up, and mouths, “You done good.”

For the first time in hours, Annie feels the tightness in her chest loosen.


	28. Fragile As a Dream

**Chapter Twenty-Eight - Fragile as a Dream**

Finnick sits cross-legged on the beach, still picking at the remains of their meal while Katniss helps Peeta apply ointment to the rest of the younger man’s acid burns. Tearing off a small chunk of bread, he breathes deeply of its scent before popping it into his mouth. Thanks to that ointment – and Haymitch – the itching is gone, smothered under the opaque film the ointment leaves in its wake. So what if he doesn’t look pretty, as Katniss so eloquently put it? If he thought it would make the people of the Capitol leave him alone, he’d slather the stuff on every day for the rest of his life. Assuming, of course, that he has a rest of his life.

And the bread… Another gift ostensibly from a sponsor, the bread means that Annie is alive and in the Headquarters Building, more specifically in the mentors’ control room, and that she is well enough, whole enough in mind and body to send him something that has so many layers of meaning he can’t begin to count them. Who knew that her simple mistake in a recipe years ago would become a lifeline to him in the arena? _None of us could have anticipated this_ , he thinks grimly. _We were promised we’d never have to do this again._

The fact that Annie was able to send that bread in the first place – and it could only have come from her – is the most important thing. It means that she isn’t in Peacekeeper custody. A shudder of relief runs through Finnick. He takes another bite of bread, reveling in the garlicky, salty taste of it. Annie isn’t free, none of them are, but at least she’s with Haymitch and Lyme and the others, people who can and will catch her if she falls.

Finnick stretches out beneath the midmorning sun and covers his closed eyes with his arm, trusting Katniss’ instincts and that she won’t leave him to die if anyone or anything else comes at them. Too much has happened in the last few hours for him to worry about Katniss herself trying to kill him; he’s pretty sure that ship has sailed.

The sun, the heat, the lapping waves, the smell and feel of the salt-laden air can almost convince him that he’s lying on the beach back home. That Annie will drop down onto the sand beside him, tuck herself under his arm and lay her head on his shoulder as she’s done so many times before. He wants it so badly it makes his chest ache and his eyes burn, so instead of hungering for what he can’t have, Finnick lets himself sink into memories.

The first time Annie baked seaweed bread for him was for their first official date. She’d asked Mags for her recipe and accidentally altered it in the translation, had worried far too much about the only noticeable “mistake,” something Finnick always considered more of an enhancement. He smiles, recalling that night, how he’d gone to her house for dinner, but then they’d become so distracted by each other that it was hours before they’d eaten a thing. He’d learned over the years how good sex could be with someone he cared about, but he hadn’t understood until that night that it could be all-consuming with someone he loved.

 _Maybe that’s not such a safe topic_ , he thinks when his body reacts to the vivid memory. There are cameras everywhere in the arena and the thin fabric of his underwear doesn’t hide a thing. His only companions, holding a quiet conversation just a few feet away, are young and attractive. He doesn’t want Annie to have to listen to the conjecture that’s likely to come up; he knows from past Games that, unless there’s something more violent happening, he, Katniss and Peeta will be the center of attention, along with a commentary full of double entendres and dirty jokes. To forestall that commentary, Finnick shifts, bending one knee to disguise his erection.

His mind, too, shifts, to the night Annie met his parents. It was supposed to be _only_ his parents, the evening spent in their home so Annie could see where Finnick grew up, but his mom invited his sister and nephew and neglected to tell Finnick about it, knowing that he would have canceled. He and Annie had only been together for a few weeks; their relationship was too new for the test of Shandra’s bluntness or Rhys’ disturbingly tight focus. It was bad enough just introducing her to Jenna and Thomas, who were pretty civilized in comparison.

He hadn’t known about the additions to the guest list when he tied off the speedboat, his one indulgence since becoming a victor, at his parents’ dock. He helped Annie from the boat, but before leading her up to the house for introductions, he’d pulled her into the boathouse for a quick kiss. Even without knowing about Shandra and Rhys, he knew there wouldn’t be any privacy for such things once his parents were aware they were there. But that kiss had quickly turned into something not at all quick. More slow and lingering, full of hands and heat and bare skin and…

“Not helping, Odair,” he mutters, shifting again, trying to force his thoughts into a less problematic direction. Like Shandra sounding her boat’s incredibly loud horn a few minutes later, when she and Rhys pulled up to the pier, making him jump away from Annie like a scalded cat. The smirk his sister gave him when he introduced Annie to her a few minutes later had confirmed that she knew exactly what he and Annie had been doing, that the blast of sound had been deliberate.

“Did you say something, Finnick?” Katniss asks, but sudden screaming in the distance, not close enough to be an immediate threat, saves him from answering. Finnick rolls to his feet and reaches for his trident, looking for the source of the screams. Katniss and Peeta do the same.

A portion of jungle across the water from their wedge begins to vibrate, almost like a localized earthquake. Finnick turns toward the movement, shading his eyes with one hand as an enormous wave crests high over the hill and crashes down, drowning the trees and everything else in its path. The wave collides with the saltwater far below with such force that it sends water flooding up the beach to swamp their small camp. The answering surf rolls in over Finnick’s ankles almost to his knees. On its way back out, the water sucks everything after it except the mat Finnick had set up as a sun screen, the only thing anchored down in their camp. Weapons, bowls of food and water, the bits of blue fabric that used to be their jumpsuits, all of it floats away.

Peeta snags one of the flotation belts along with Katniss’ extra set of arrows, but Finnick is amused to see that none of them attempts to rescue the half-disintegrated jumpsuits. During the scramble to keep from losing their things, a cannon fires. One more tribute dead. Someone else Finnick has known for years is gone and he wonders if the resulting hole inside him will be small or gaping or if it will even matter. A weird expectancy builds in the thick, humid air just before the hovercraft comes into view over the jungle canopy. The claw descends and plucks a blue-suited body from the tops of the trees. It’s impossible to tell who it is. Or was.

After a moment, carrying the salvaged bread and shellfish along with his trident, Finnick follows Katniss and Peeta farther up the beach to the shade of the jungle. “You two look truly awful,” he tells them, grinning as he drops down to sit, offering them the food. They really do look bad, their skin mottled and scabbed where their underclothes don’t cover it, the drying ointment cracking in the heat. Finnick knows he doesn’t look much better.

Peeta shrugs and takes a piece of bread. “Whatever’s in the medicine that makes it green at least blocks some of the sun,” he observes. Finnick judges that it’s not even close to noon; the air temperature promises to be blistering as that relentless sun rises higher in the pink sky. Something that blocks the sun can’t be a bad thing. When Finnick looks again toward Peeta, the younger man is watching him.

“What? Do I have oyster stuck to my chin?” Finnick makes a show of brushing off his face and Peeta looks away.

“Sorry. I just…” He meets Finnick’s gaze again and says, “I’m sorry about Mags.”

“Peeta.” Katniss says nothing more than his name, but her tone practically screams for him to shut up.

“It’s okay, Katniss,” Finnick tells her and right at that moment, it is okay, but he knows the grief will come tearing at him again, as inevitable as the tide.

“I wish I could have gotten to know her better,” Peeta continues with a glance at Katniss. “She seemed like a great lady.”

“She was.” Finnick half smiles. “She’d probably smack you for calling her a lady, though.” He picks a piece of seaweed from his undershirt and flings it away before adding, “She liked both of you. Especially you, Katniss.”

“Me?” Finnick sees all sorts of things flit across her face as she processes the information and he guesses from the tinge of guilt in her expression that she had dismissed Mags as old and mostly useless at least once.

“You.” He nods. “She liked your fire.” Mags was old, but definitely not useless. Never useless. And her opinion carries – _carried_ – a lot of weight back home. It can’t hurt to let the people of District 4 know that Mags was with Katniss Everdeen for herself and not just because Mags and Finnick were a team.

“You knew her a long time?” Katniss asks, breaking Finnick’s train of thought.

Finnick looks out at the water, sparkling in the sun. “All my life.” He can hear the pain that creeps into his voice and apparently Katniss hears it, too.

“Maybe we should think about moving on,” she says with a sympathetic glance at Finnick. She pushes up from the sand and secures the tube of medicine at her waist along with the spile. Peeta starts to say something to her, but instead he turns to look at something that catches his eye two spokes over. Finnick looks in that direction, too, along the line of the jungle, but sees nothing troubling. Even so, he stands; if they’re going to break camp, he wants to take with them the bowls and mat he wove.

“There,” Katniss says, pointing at three figures stumbling out onto the beach just beyond where Finnick had been looking. Without a need for discussion, he and his allies fade back into the cover of the trees, but not too far; the horror and the danger within the jungle is too fresh. One of the figures drags another along the ground, heading doggedly toward the water while the third runs wobbly circles around them, looping back to join them only to circle out away from them once more.

The reddish brown figures turn a bright, solid brick red under the blazing sun and Finnick frowns. There’s something familiar about the way they move, particularly the one in the lead.

“Who is that?” Peeta asks, keeping his voice low. “Or what? Muttations?”

Straightening, Katniss draws an arrow from her quiver and fits it to the bowstring. Finnick glances at his trident as the dragged figure drops completely to the ground. The one that was doing the dragging stumbles at the sudden lack of resistance, then stomps a foot in obvious frustration. When the figure looping around the others comes too close and the frustrated dragger gives it a shove, something clicks inside Finnick’s brain.

“No, they’re not mutts.” Acting on pure instinct, Finnick drops his trident. He steps away from the meager shelter of the jungle’s shadow and into the sunlight. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouts “Johanna!” and begins to run toward the figures.

Jo’s answering cry of “Finnick!” couldn’t be more welcome. She isn’t home, not the way Annie is, but Finnick feels as though a crushing weight drops from his shoulders as he runs.

xXx

_“I wish I could have gotten to know her better. She seemed like a great lady.”_

Annie sat on the sand, watching the waves sparkle and shimmer. Her feet were cold, chilled to the bone. The fact that she was barefoot might have had something to do with that. There wasn’t much of a breeze, probably a good thing, given the chill in the air as the sun sank low in the October sky, not quite kissing the horizon.

A pair of feet in black canvas shoes swam into her vision and she jumped, had to put a hand out to steady herself or fall over, even though she was already sitting. Her heart pounded in her chest and she looked around for the threat, reached with her other hand for a knife that wasn’t there.

“Annie, child?” The feet were still there, the skin covering the ankles that rose above the canvas old and blue-veined, a perfect fit for the voice and for the shoes, a little rough around the edges from long use.

“Gran?” Annie looked up, her eyes tracing the legs attached to the ankles that disappeared around mid-calf into faded denim; the red – _bright, hot blood_ – cable-knit sweater was unfamiliar, and for a moment, so was the face of the woman to whom everything belonged.

“Lo siento, Anita.” Her voice was gentle, pitched to soothe. “No, it’s only me. Just old Mags, hija.”

Annie blinked back sudden tears. “Mags,” she said, recognizing the old woman after a few more seconds’ delay. She didn’t understand every word Mags said, but after a few weeks around the old woman, that wasn’t anything new. And she did know that she was not _only_ Mags, or _just_ Mags, but she was also not her Gran. Annie’s grandmother was gone, buried a few days ago beside the marker for her daughter, Annie’s mother, in a public cemetery two hours by boat to the north of Victors’ Island. Annie closed herself off from that new pain.

Wrapping her arms around her knees again, she looked back out over the water. She’d been watching for something, waiting, but she couldn’t remember for what. A huge bird dove toward the water then rose again with a fish dangling from its talons. A flash of red at its throat at first made Annie think that it was bleeding, dying, but she shook that off as arena think. Watching the bird grow smaller as it flew off with its meal, Annie identified it as a frigatebird, partly because of that blood-red splash. She used to see them all the time back home, where she lived with Gran. She hadn’t seen one here before. Annie smiled to think, if only for an instant, that maybe it had followed her here. She wondered where it belonged, where it thought of as home.

“Where’s Finnick?” Annie abruptly asked Mags.

Mags lowered herself to the sand beside Annie and put an arm around her shoulders and it was so much like something her Gran would have done that Annie couldn’t help the sob that escaped her. “Hush, child,” Mags said, stroking Annie’s hair. “He’s in the Capitol. He’ll be home again in a few days.”

“Oh.” Finnick had been with her at her Gran’s house, but then he went away. He was going to help Annie and her grandmother move to the house on Victors’ Island, _had_ helped her pick that house and move some of her things, but Gran got sick and she died and Finnick left and it was Mags who helped her bury Gran and move the rest of their things here. Not that there was much to move, just some furniture and clothes, a few mementos.

Mags hadn’t done any of the heavy lifting herself. She made a phone call and a few hours later there were so many people – Martin and Angel and Gil and Azimuth – all of them strangers but all of them victors, like Finnick and Mags (like Annie, too, Mags reminded her, but Annie thought she was probably wrong about that part). They packed Annie’s things and carried them away, leaving nothing behind but a change of clothes for Annie to wear after the funeral. Everything was in the new house when Annie and Mags arrived a couple of days ago.

The two women sat in silence on the beach and watched the sun sink into the sea, shooting deep pink streaks into the mares’ tails of cloud that drifted over the sky. Annie pretended she was with Gran. She knew it wasn’t true, but it made her feel better while the illusion lasted. The evening grew cooler as the sun dipped lower and Annie shivered. Gran’s arm – _no, that’s not right_ , Annie reminded herself. Mags’ arm tightened around Annie’s shoulders.

“Let’s go inside, hija. It’s too chilly out here for these old bones.” Mags’ warm breath sent out curling puffs of steam as she spoke. She kissed the top of Annie’s head and chuckled. “I imagine it’s a bit too cool for your young ones, too.”

In the distance, the beacon of the lighthouse on the mainland grew brighter in contrast to the darkening sky. Annie watched it flare and then fade. She didn’t know how long she watched it, the breeze playing with her hair, sending stray strands to tickle her cheeks and her lips, when a hand swam into her vision and she jumped. Mags.

“Come, child.”

Annie took Mags’ hand in hers and let the old woman pull her to her feet. “Will I have to go back?” she asked, her eyes never straying from the lighthouse’s shining beacon.

“Back?”

“To the Capitol.” Annie heard sudden, jarring laughter behind them, there and then gone. She shuddered and closed her eyes, pulled her hand away from Mags to wrap her arms tightly around herself. There was no one else on the beach.

Mags stroked Annie’s arm lightly, pulling her right hand from under her left arm and closing her fingers around it. “Yes, Annie, you will have to go back at least once. For your Victory Tour.”

“I don’t want to.” Annie tried to pull away from Mags, but she couldn’t break her grip. Rather than fight, Annie followed her up the beach toward the dark house. She wanted to go home, but that wasn’t possible. Gran was gone. That dark house they walked toward, too big and too empty, was where Annie lived now. She didn’t want to go there, either.

“You’re not a child any longer, Annie.” Laughter bubbled up inside Annie at that declaration even as Mags continued. “There will always be things you don’t want to do that you have to do anyway.”

“You call me ‘child’ all the time,” she pointed out to Mags, who squeezed her hand.

“To me, _child_ , you are _all_ children.” Mags arched an eyebrow at Annie, making her giggle, but when they reached the steps that led up to Annie’s back door, Annie stopped. She stopped laughing, she stopped walking.

“Can we go to your house instead?” Annie asked and when she thought Mags might argue, might tell her to grow up or something, she added, “Just for a little while. Please?”

Mags patted Annie’s hand. “Hush. You can stay with me tonight, if you want, Annie. I know you miss your grandmother.” She changed direction, going past another unlit house and then leading Annie up the steps to yet a third.

“Have you chosen your talent yet?” Mags asked as she opened the back door, reaching inside to switch on a light.

“My talent?” Annie followed her into a large, bright yellow kitchen, well used. She vaguely remembered something about victors and talents, but she couldn’t chase the memory down, didn’t want to chase it down. Didn’t want to be a victor. But Mags was a victor and so was Finnick, so maybe it wouldn’t be so bad?

“Something you like to do or that you’re good at for the Capitol to ooh and ah over.” Mags walked over to the refrigerator and started pulling things out, setting them on the counter by the stove. “Do you like chili?”

Frowning, Annie told her, “I like to dance.” She spun around in the middle of Mags’ kitchen, almost dancing. It was warmer in here than it was outside. Watching her, Mags laughed.

“You can’t eat dance, hija. But do you like chili?”

“Oh. Yes, I like chili.”

“Good. Chili it is then.” Mags smiled. “After dinner I can show you a dance I learned as a child.”

 _“No, they’re not mutts.”_ Finnick’s voice over her headset jars Annie from Mags’ kitchen back to the control room. She blinks several times hard, and when that doesn’t clear her vision, she wipes at the tears with the heels of her hands. On the screen, Finnick is running along the beach toward a group of dark red figures that look vaguely human. Two of the figures lie on the ground, one prone, the other half-sitting. _“Johanna!”_ he shouts.

The figure that’s still standing turns toward the sound of Finnick’s voice and then starts running toward him. Seconds later, they crash into each other and Finnick swings a brick-red Johanna Mason up off the ground, her legs dangling for a couple of seconds before he lets her go.

 _“You’re crazy, Odair,”_ Johanna accuses, but Annie hears the laughter and the relief in her voice.

Finnick’s voice mirrors that relief when he pulls Johanna into his arms again and tells her, _“I was so afraid one of those cannons was for you.”_ He buries his face in her neck at the end, muffling his words. A sudden and unwelcome wave of jealousy catches Annie by surprise and she has to fight to push it away. Johanna is Finnick’s friend and, more recently, she’s Annie’s friend, too. He’s never kept his relationship with Johanna a secret; there’s no reason, especially under the circumstances, for Annie to be jealous now.

Finnick releases Johanna and when she starts walking back toward the two people she pulled out of the jungle with her, he follows. _“One of them almost was,”_ she tells him over her shoulder, the sound a little distant, but clear enough. _“But it ended up going off for Blight instead of me.”_

 _“What happened?”_ Finnick asks as Peeta and Katniss join them. Katniss still has bow and arrow in hand. Peeta carries Finnick’s trident.

“I called it!” Annie and most of the others in the control room turn toward the shout: the mentor for District 10 is standing a few feet away from his station, watching the District 7 feed. He and Acer had been playing cards up until a few minutes ago. “Not only do you owe me for that last hand, but I won the bet, too.” Haymitch throws an empty plastic cup at the man.

“Shut up, Devon.”

From the other side of the room, Shale from District 2 calls, “What bet?”

Grinning, Devon answers, “I told him ain’t no way Odair and Mason weren’t hookin’ up in the arena. Not the way they go at each other in the lounge.” Eyes wide, Annie turns away, back toward her screen. It’s suddenly hard to breathe.

A hand on her shoulder makes her jump. She hears Haymitch call someone, probably Devon, an asshole. Rae hunkers down beside Annie’s chair and says, loud enough for the whole room to hear, “He didn’t mean it the way it sounded, Annie.” She shoots Devon a reproachful look.

“Oh, shit. No! I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant that they’d find each other in the arena, not that they’d fu— Erm, mess around.” His face is bright red. “They poke at each other all the time, is all. Bickering.” Annie forces her fists to unclench.

“Finnick loves you, Annie,” Rae tells her and Annie nods.

“I know. I know he does.” She looks at Rae. “But he loves Johanna, too.” Before Rae has a chance to respond to that, Annie hears Finnick’s gasped _“Shit…”_ over her headset. Rae turns back toward her monitors and Annie thinks Rae heard something over her headset, too, since both of her tributes are there, as well.

 _“Who do you think got them out of that bleeding jungle for you? You—”_ Johanna’s voice is pitched higher than Annie remembers, her words rapid and furious. Annie didn’t see what happened, but Peeta is holding Katniss back as Johanna starts toward the younger woman, murder in her eyes. Finnick grabs Johanna from behind and slings her over his shoulder before she can say anything more, carrying her away from the others, down to the water.

Johanna fights him, still apparently trying to get to Katniss, shouting at her and calling her names Annie hasn’t heard before, suggesting Katniss do things to herself that don’t sound possible. Johanna is still shouting when Finnick wades out into the water and drops her, pushing her head under. She comes up sputtering and swinging; Finnick ducks her fist and shoves her back down, holding her there for a couple of seconds before letting her go once more.

 _“I nearly_ died _trying to save Volts for that bi—”_ Finnick pushes her backward into the water; already off balance, Johanna pinwheels her arms trying to keep herself from falling, but then he kicks her legs out from under her and she goes under again.

_“That’s enough, Jo!”_

She comes up spluttering. _“You sorry son of a bitch!”_ No longer interested in going after Katniss, she charges a laughing Finnick, who easily sidesteps and, grabbing Johanna’s wrist on the way past, swings her back into the water. Watching them, Annie doesn’t know if she should laugh or cry.

xXx

Annie is a familiar warmth against Finnick’s side, as familiar as the sun beating down from above to the sound of waves lapping at the beach or the sand on which they lay, hot where the sun touches it but cool where their bodies provide shade. She shifts, snuggling closer, bringing her leg over his and slipping a foot between his ankles, resting her arm over his hips, her hand at his groin. A moment later she lifts her head from his chest and nuzzles at his collarbone, opening her mouth against his skin. Finnick smiles sleepily, half awake and fully aroused. He pushes up into her hand and she presses down against him, drawing a low moan from him as he turns toward her.

But then everything comes flooding over him in a relentless tide. Reaping Day. The arena. More blood on his hands. Mags. The Girl on Fire. Annie in the Capitol, within easy reach of Snow. The promises he made: to Katniss, though she doesn’t know it, and to Annie.

Johanna.

“Jo, stop.” Finnick’s voice is rough from sleep and from lust and it doesn’t really matter that he thought she was Annie when he woke. If the cameras pick it up, the only thing the people of Panem, including Annie – _especially Annie_ – will see is Finnick Odair in a compromising position with Johanna Mason.

“You used to like it when I woke you like this.” Jo’s voice is rough, too, and she squeezes, not quite hard enough to cause pain. Finnick starts to pull away from her, but her leg over his tightens, holding him there a moment longer before letting him go.

“Not on camera.” Snow may have sold him to whoever had the money, but the bastard drew the line at filming it; if any tapes exist, they never made it onto public airwaves. “And not anymore,” Finnick continues, his voice softer. The night in Johanna’s apartment following their last meeting with Heavensbee – before the arena, before Finnick’s promises to Annie – had been their last time together, though they hadn’t known it then. His gaze moves to her throat, looking for marks that had faded away weeks ago, pressed into her skin by a man to whom she’d been sold. Seeing those marks had been a shock; finding out how they came to be had made him sick.

Johanna always said there was no one she cared about, no one Snow could use against her. But that night Finnick had gone home with her, just to have a couple of hours to relax before his next client, to not have to perform for a while, and he had seen those bruises on her throat. That’s when he learned just how much Johanna cared about him, because it was him – and Annie – that Snow had used to gain Johanna’s cooperation. The President had threatened Annie and Jo had done it to keep Annie, a woman she’d never even met, safe because of what Annie meant to Finnick.

“I asked her to marry me, Jo,” Finnick whispers without preamble. This isn’t how he would have chosen to tell her, but there aren’t a lot of options and he needs her to know. Johanna’s eyes widen.

“What?”

“She said yes.” The surprise on Johanna’s face gives way to some other emotion Finnick can’t identify.

“When?” she asks, her whisper matching Finnick’s. No one needs to know the details of this conversation.

“After the ball game at the Training Center.”

“Right before they shoved us back into the arena? You _moron_! You stupid _fuck_!” She still whispers, although “moron” and “fuck” are loud and clear. Finnick has no trouble naming the emotion she’s feeling now, even if he doesn’t understand why she’s angry.

“Jo…” A few spokes away, he hears the not-quite-thunder crack as lightning strikes a tree. He turns back toward Johanna.

“How could you do that to her?” That’s not what he expected. He wonders again what she and Annie spoke about when they’d broken off from that impromptu ball game.

“Jo.” He glances toward the others, at Peeta sleeping on the sand a few feet away, at Beetee just beyond Peeta, stretched out face down on the mat to keep the sand from his wound, at Katniss sitting farther away, near the water with Wiress. None of them pays any attention to Johanna and him.

“You _bastard_.” Jo punctuates her fierce whisper with a fist brought down hard on Finnick’s chest. “If Mags knew about this, she’d beat the crap out of you!” When she moves to hit him again, Finnick catches her wrist in one hand. His own anger stirs despite – or maybe because of – the fact that he had the same thought himself and he’d expected Mags to react about the same way Jo is now. But she hadn’t.

“Mags did know, Jo. I told her the night of the interviews. And _she_ told _me_ that it gave us both something to live for.” Johanna blinks at that and swallows anything else she might have said. And then she’s blinking back tears, still looking as angry as Finnick has ever seen her. “Jo, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to tell you like this.” Some of the anger leaches from her eyes. “You know how I feel about you, Jo. You’re my best friend. I don’t think I could have survived the Capitol without you.”

“Don’t, Finnick. Just don’t.” She stares toward Katniss and Wiress. Settling back down beside him, she rubs her face against his shoulder, drying her eyes on his shirt. “I fucking hate the Capitol.” She moves in against his side again, resuming their earlier positions with the exception of laying her hand flat on his stomach instead of further south. “For what it’s worth,” she says, her lips moving against his chest in an almost caress, “I hope you get the chance to marry your Annie.”

xXx

Stretched out on his back a little away from the others, Finnick is half asleep when Johanna stalks away from Katniss to join him. She lowers herself to the sand and lies down beside him and Annie doubts he’s aware of what he’s doing when he pulls her in against his side. He doesn’t open his eyes and his vital signs, hovering in the reduced levels of the sleep zone, don’t change. Using him as a pillow, Johanna lays her head on Finnick’s chest and closes her eyes.

Annie leans back in her chair and stretches her legs out, accidentally sending one of her abandoned shoes farther back under the console. Flexing her ankles, she stifles a yawn. It’s pushing an hour since anything much happened in the arena, which is nothing to complain about, but she’s had so little sleep in the past two days and she’s exhausted, both emotionally and physically. Without meaning to, Annie closes her eyes. She drifts, hovering at the edge of sleep herself.

 _“Jo, stop.”_ Finnick’s voice in her ear, pitched low but not quite a whisper, wakes her with a jolt. Annie straightens in her chair and blinks rapidly to clear her vision as she looks up at her monitor. He and Johanna lay as they did before, except that they’re both awake and Johanna’s hand has drifted below his waist.

 _“You used to like it when I woke you like this.”_ A shout rises from the lounge, followed by a whistle and a smattering of applause. Annie blinks again and heat floods her face. She knows about the physical aspect of their relationship, but it’s one thing being told that they were lovers – as she said to Johanna, she’s never had Finnick to herself – it’s another thing entirely to see evidence of it firsthand, an unwelcome surprise.

 _“Not on camera.”_ Finnick puts some space between him and Johanna, but he doesn’t move entirely away from her. _“And not anymore.”_ He says something else to her, but his voice is too low for the microphones to pick up. When Johanna responds, she, too, keeps her voice to a whisper and Annie turns up the volume on her headset, hating herself a little for eavesdropping, but she still can’t make out what they’re saying. Finnick’s pulse rate is up, though, and Johanna looks angry. Annie turns the volume back down. The two continue back and forth, rapid-fire whispers, until Johanna raises her voice just enough for Annie to hear a couple of angry words, derisive names directed at Finnick, but she still can’t make out the rest of it.

A crack of sound in the distance draws Finnick’s attention momentarily away from Johanna, but he turns his head back toward her again when she calls him a bastard and pounds her fist on his chest. Finnick catches Johanna’s arm before she can hit him again, whispering angrily at her, and she seems to deflate in his arms. He keeps talking and Johanna listens. Their anger fades. Johanna rubs her face on Finnick’s shoulder and then rests her head on his chest. This time, she keeps her hands in safer territory, which makes Annie feel a little better.

Annie’s stomach growls loudly enough that she can hear it past her headset. A quick glance at the clock over the door confirms that it’s after noon, and Annie realizes that she’s hungry; she hasn’t eaten since Haymitch brought her coffee and bread five or six hours ago. She searches under the console with her foot and hooks one shoe, but can’t reach the other. With a sigh she stands. Not wanting to crawl under it to look for the other shoe, she walks barefoot out of the control room, pausing at the top of the stairs to look into the victors’ lounge before heading down.

The room below is full of people: victors in the Capitol solely for the Games; off-duty mentors taking a break from the stress of watching over their tributes, essentially unable to help them in any meaningful way; mentors whose charges are dead, their districts no longer in the Games. Annie doesn’t know most of them, although she has seen them around the control room and lounge over the past couple of days.

When Annie reaches the bottom of the stairs she turns toward the food dispensers, debating whether to take her food back up to the control room or to eat in the lounge. Silke from District 1 is there, pouring herself a glass of ice water from a large pitcher on a table near the dispensers; the older woman nods and raises her glass in greeting before taking it back to a comfortable-looking chair in front of the television.

Annie is placing a request for fruit and a sandwich when someone turns up the volume on the television and Claudius Templesmith’s voice fills the room. _“—lovers’ spat, do you think?”_ He laughs. _“At least that’s what it looked like to me.”_

 _“It’s too bad they weren’t loud enough for the rest of us to hear,”_ Caesar Flickerman chimes in to more laughter.

_“Very inconsiderate of them.”_

_“Indeed. But that does bring up an interesting point, Claudius. The tributes this year are all adults. With the possible exceptions of our Star-Crossed Lovers from District Twelve, they all have histories with each other. Just using Finnick as an example, he hasn’t only been linked with—”_

Templesmith snickers at that. _“’Linked with.’ Oh, that’s a good one, Caesar.”_

_“—Johanna Mason, but at various times with both Gloss and Enobaria.”_

_“She is just so delightfully scary.”_

A woman standing in the entrance to the lounge snorts. “There must not be anything happening in the arena right now.” Annie glances over her shoulder and sees Lyme from District 2. She likes Lyme, feels safe around her. “Watt, would you turn that down please?” She walks past the couch where Watt sits, joining Annie at the food dispensers. Annie reaches for her sandwich, setting it on her tray with the bowl of fruit, and then steps to the side to allow Lyme to order. “I can’t stand their lack of respect.” Annie looks at Lyme and reaches for the pitcher of water. “They treat us as though we’re pets.” That last is so soft that only Annie can hear it.

“I’m happy to comfort you, pretty Annie.” Watt’s tone is mocking, filled with innuendo, but his words are slightly slurred and Annie wonders if he might be on something. “Come sit with me. Or on me. There’s no need for you to be left out in the cold while Finnick and his—”

Annie cuts off the rest of his offer by dumping the pitcher of ice water over his head. She doesn’t remember taking the necessary steps to be able to do that, but she doesn’t regret it. While Watt splutters, most of the other victors in the room laugh. One of them, Annie doesn’t know who, gives her a little cheer and tells her “That was a thing of beauty.”

When Watt, looking angry – and wet – starts to rise from his place on the couch, Lyme shoves him back down. “You might want to clean up your mess before you leave,” she tells him mildly. “All that water could damage the leather.” Annie bites back a smile of her own.

Picking up her tray, Annie starts toward the stairs, but she stops cold when she hears Gloss’ voice behind her. _“I won’t kill Finnick.”_ Apparently, the Gamemakers finally have something more interesting than Finnick’s supposed love life to show the people of Panem. The tray starts to slip from Annie’s hands, but she catches it; her glass wobbles, ice clinking against the sides as the water within sloshes violently, but doesn’t spill. She carefully sets the tray down on a nearby table and turns back toward the television and its main feed of the Games.

The Careers are in a clearing in the jungle, gathered around what looks like a map of the arena sketched into the sandy dirt. Three of them crouch around the map. Cashmere stands a little bit away, half turned toward the others, half toward the jungle itself, keeping watch.

 _“Gloss…”_ Brutus starts to say, but Gloss talks over him.

 _“Look, I know he has to die. I’m not going to stop any of you from taking him out. I…”_ He looks at his sister and then back at Brutus and shrugs. _“I just can’t kill him myself.”_ Enobaria nods.

 _“And that is exactly what I am talking about!”_ Caesar Flickerman crows in the corner of the screen, tapping a pen on the desk at which he sits with Claudius Templesmith.

 _“I don’t like it either,”_ Enobaria says to the group, _“but it has to be done. He, Johanna, and the girl from Twelve are the only threats remaining.”_ She stops to think for a second and then adds, _“Maybe Chaff.”_ The others nod. _“They have to go.”_

 _“Cashmere?”_ Brutus prompts.

She doesn’t say anything at first, just continues watching out over the jungle. After a moment, she turns a little toward Gloss and says, _“Only one of us can walk out of here.”_

Brutus nods, apparently satisfied. _“We know where they are right now.”_

 _“Yeah, acting as if they own the beach,”_ Cashmere snorts, sliding in to kneel in the space between Gloss and Enobaria. Gloss shifts toward his sister, not quite touching her.

 _“Exactly,”_ Brutus agrees. _”I say we circle around and hit the Cornucopia for more weapons, then…”_

Annie picks up her tray again, not really hungry anymore, but knowing she still has to eat. She carries it up to the control room, but rather than sitting at her own station, she sets it down at the District 12 console and pulls out the chair beside Haymitch. He looks at her questioningly.

She offers him her sandwich, which she no longer has the stomach for, and he accepts it, unwrapping it as she tells him what she heard about the Careers’ plan. “What can we do, Haymitch?” she asks, feeling like they’ve had this conversation before. He shakes his head.

“Sorry, Annie. Nothing we can do but watch it play out.”

On Haymitch’s screen, Annie sees Finnick’s group, Katniss in the lead and Finnick bringing up the rear, walking across one of the strips of land toward the Cornucopia.


	29. You Call My Name in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter warnings: character death, brief mention of suicide/suicidal thoughts**
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> Some of the dialogue in the arena comes directly from Catching Fire, so it belongs to Ms. Collins, rather than me. Thank you, Ms. Collins! The title comes from Snow Patrol's Fallen Empires. You can listen to the soundtrack for this chapter (and all of Part III - The Arena so far) [here](http://8tracks.com/sabaceanbabe/treading-water-4#mix_set_id=50145852).

**Chapter Twenty-Nine - You Call My Name in the Dark**

Peeta lays Beetee down in the meager shade the Cornucopia provides, the reflected sunlight making it less cooling than it could be. Calling for Wiress, the older man hands the spool of wire he’s been holding like it’s his child to his district partner and asks her to clean the blood from the coils; without a word, Wiress takes the wire just a few steps away to the water’s edge. She sits on the sandy ground with her feet and ankles dangling in the water, dunking the spool over and over and splashing contentedly as she quietly sings.

“Oh, not the song again.” Johanna rolls her eyes. “That went on for hours before she started tick-tocking.”

Before Johanna can say anything else, disparaging or otherwise, Wiress scrambles to her feet, drawing everyone’s attention. “Two,” she announces authoritatively as she points toward the fog creeping from the jungle to the beach in the wedge next to the one they just left, lending credence to Katniss’ theory that the arena is a giant clock.

“Yes, look,” Katniss says. “Wiress is right. It’s two o’clock and the fog has started.”

Finnick shudders, feeling the phantom pain of the acid as he relives the very real pain of helplessly watching Mags die. Turning away, he shuts himself off from both the fog and Johanna’s concern, but it’s not so easy to turn away from the memory of Mags’ death.

“Like clockwork.” Peeta smiles. “You were very smart to figure that out, Wiress.”

Beside Finnick, Johanna rolls her eyes again and whispers, “Condescending jackass.”

Elbowing her in the ribs and shooting her a look, Finnick tells her to “Lay off,” deliberately using Katniss’ words from earlier. Johanna’s eyebrows rise to an impressive height, but she doesn’t say anything else, just shrugs and crosses her arms under her breasts.

“Oh, she’s more than smart,” Beetee subtly rebukes Peeta, whose face reddens as he seems to realize how he sounded to the others. “She’s intuitive. She can sense things before anyone else. Like a canary in one of your coal mines.”

Frowning at the unfamiliar term, Finnick asks, “What’s that?”

“It’s a bird,” Katniss tells him, “that we take down into the mines to warn us if there’s bad air.”

“What’s it do?” Johanna asks. “Die?”

“It stops singing first. That’s when you should get out. But if the air’s too bad, it dies, yes. And so do you.” Katniss’ expression is a study in anger and sorrow and Finnick wonders if she lost someone to “bad air.” She turns and walks away, heading for the stack of weapons that still remain. After a few seconds’ hesitation, Johanna follows her.

“Somebody’d better go act as referee,” Finnick sighs. “Peeta, you coming?” The younger man glances up at Finnick and then toward Johanna and Katniss, watching as they take opposite sides of the weaponry. They pointedly ignore each other as they pick through axes and knives, tridents and spears, sheathes of arrows, swords and clubs and a couple of weapons Finnick has no names for.

“No, Finnick, I’ll stay here with Beetee.”

“In that case, any requests?” He grins at the younger man.

“I don’t know. I guess I could always use another knife or two.”

With a nod, Finnick joins Johanna as she tests the weight of a small axe. She balances it in her hand before flipping it into the air, handle over head, and catching it on the way back down. Without missing a beat, she sends it flying at the Cornucopia, embedding it in the soft metal. She smirks at Finnick and then saunters away to retrieve her new toy. Katniss circles around to the other side of the stack of weapons.

“Why should I spare Peeta’s precious feelings?” Johanna asks Finnick when she rejoins him. Katniss may or may not be out of ear shot, not that Finnick thinks Johanna cares; Jo is clearly spoiling for a fight. “Nuts may not be all there, but she’s not stupid. Or a child.” She slides the handle of the axe through her belt.

Finnick tugs at a net and, once he sees the path it winds through the more obvious weapons in the pile, starts working it free. “The last victor he spoke to was Linna, so he was probably still thinking of her.” While Linna hadn’t been stupid either, she had retreated more and more toward a child-like mental state over the years as the morphling addiction grew stronger.

“So? That’s no excuse.” Johanna pulls another axe from the pile and adds it to her belt on the opposite side from the first.

“Not an excuse, no, but maybe an explanation.” A last bit of effort frees the net. Unlike the one he'd found here the day before, this one, with weights on all four corners, is designed to throw at an enemy, entangling them before they can bring their own weapon to bear. His other net, lost in the night, was barbed with subtle hooks that made it seem almost sticky. Finnick folds his new net lengthwise and ties it across his chest and shoulder like a sash. “Besides, Peeta died yesterday. He’s still recovering. Something like that _has_ to mess with your head.”

“Died?” Johanna asks, skeptical. Finnick shrugs and pulls a trident from the pile.

“He walked into the force field before we knew it existed.” The hard edges of her skepticism soften and he knows she’s remembering Blight, who wasn’t a friend, exactly, but who was still a man with whom she had worked as a mentor every year since her first Games. Johanna reaches for a long hunting knife, testing the blade on the pad of her thumb, then hands it to Finnick and reaches for a second one. “One of my uncles was electrocuted a few years back and I was able to restart his heart. The technique worked for Peeta, too.” Finnick entwines the knife into his net so that it hangs near his hip.

“Lucky for him you knew what to do.” Frowning, Johanna steps in front of Finnick, forcing him to look at her. “So you ready to tell me how Mags died?” His gaze slides away, focuses on Wiress dunking Beetee’s wire in the cleansing saltwater. Most of the blood seems to have washed away. There’s a rattle of metal on metal behind them as Katniss pulls something from the stack.

“I thought you and Katniss talked,” Finnick says, still watching Wiress, but not really seeing her.

“We did. I want to hear your version.”

Finnick forces himself to breathe normally, in and out, in and out. He nods toward the section of beach crawling with acidic vapor, confined to that stretch of sand and jungle by invisible glass walls, Gamemaker creativity. Silently cursing Plutarch Heavensbee, he watches the fog move within its cage.

“That shit is deadly, Jo. It isn’t water vapor. It’s acid and it’s nerve gas and it burns inside and out. The longer you have to breathe it, the more it deadens your nerves so your muscles don’t work right and you can’t _do_ anything. Mags walked straight into it. She didn’t even hesitate.”

“Why?” Finnick tears his gaze away from the fog to glance down at Johanna.

“Why’d she walk into it?” _Why did Mags kill herself?_ Johanna nods. Clenching his jaw, Finnick looks back out at the jungle and takes another deep breath. He hates himself for his weakness, and it doesn’t matter that it was all but inevitable from the moment she volunteered that Mags would die in this arena. “Because I wasn’t strong enough to carry both Mags and Peeta and I wasn’t strong enough to choose between them so Mags took the choice from me.” He can hear the echo of self-loathing and blame in his voice; the look on Johanna’s face makes it clear that she hears it, too.

“Finnick,” she starts, lifting a hand to touch his arm, but he stops her.

“Jo, I know it wasn’t my fault. I know that, but…” He looks away from her, back toward the fog, one more thing that will invade his nightmares if he survives long enough. “I know it in here,” he taps his right temple with one finger, “but in _here_ ,” he thumps his chest with his fist, right over his heart, “I know I failed her.” Another clatter of metal and he turns his head, looking toward Katniss as she rounds the pile, her hands full of arrows and knives. She even holds a trident that can only be for him. He glances back down at Johanna and drops his voice to a whisper soft enough that the microphones won’t pick up his next words. “Which means it’s that much more important I don’t fail _her_.” He nods toward Katniss and makes a silent apology to Annie.

“I don’t think I can carry much more than this,” Katniss says as she joins them and the three take their bounty – Johanna and Finnick carrying a like selection – back to Peeta and Beetee, still sitting near the Cornucopia in the dwindling shade. They’re looking at something lying flat on the ground while Wiress continues singing and dunking Beetee’s spool of wire a few yards away.

Laying her weapons on the ground, Katniss sits beside Peeta, who shows her whatever it is he and Beetee are looking at. Johanna hangs back, setting her haul down a little to the side; she doesn’t relinquish either of the axes at her belt. “How can you be so sure she’s worth it?” she whispers to Finnick.

“I can’t, Jo. Of course I can’t, but I have to have faith in something. If I die here, I don’t want it all to be for nothing.” He glances at Katniss again; she’s leaning forward and pointing at the ground in front of Peeta, who nods and says something to her and Beetee. Meeting Johanna’s dark gaze, Finnick tells her, “Katniss is more than you think she is, Jo.”

Shaking her head, Johanna smacks him in the chest with the back of her hand and heads toward the others. “I hope you’re right, Odair.”

Looking exhausted, Beetee fades back into the shade as much as he can, resting his head and shoulders against the Cornucopia and closing his eyes as Finnick and Johanna approach. When they’re close enough, Finnick sees over Peeta’s shoulder a map of the arena sketched onto a large leaf, presumably with the tip of the knife in Peeta’s right hand. The map includes notations of the dangers that lurk in several of the wedges: lightning, blood rain, fog, monkeys, and, around the circle of the arena, the tidal wave.

Katniss looks up at Johanna. “Did you notice anything unusual in the others?” she asks, gesturing with one hand toward the map. She glances over at Beetee, too, but both he and Johanna deny seeing anything useful. With a shrug she concludes, “I guess they could hold anything.”

“I’m going to mark the ones where we know the Gamemakers’ weapon follows us out past the jungle, so we’ll stay clear of those.” Peeta scratches diagonal lines into the wedges marked “fog” and “wave” then sits back. “Well, it’s a lot more than we knew this morning, anyway.”

Finnick crouches between Peeta and Katniss for a better look, but mere seconds later Katniss abruptly stands, twisting toward the water’s edge as she fits an arrow to her bow. Finnick jumps up and away from her, instinctively reaching for the knife at his hip even as he calculates how long it will take him to reach the trident he left on the ground a few feet away. It isn’t until his hand closes on the knife’s hilt that it penetrates there’s no more splashing, that Wiress is no longer singing. He turns toward where he last saw her as she slips from Gloss’ arms, her throat slit.

Everything seems to slow to a crawl. Gloss meets Finnick’s eyes and Finnick sees there a flash of regret as the man, dripping water – _How did he swim in without any of us noticing?_ – takes a step toward Finnick. His mouth opens like he’s about to say something when an arrow blooms from his temple and those gray eyes widen in surprise. Gloss crumples beside Wiress without a sound and he doesn’t get up again.

Unable to move, Finnick watches as one of Johanna’s axes seems to bury itself in Cashmere’s chest. Cash folds in around the axe as she tumbles to the ground beside her brother, falling face first into the sandy dirt and pushing the axe deeper into her heart. As though from a distance, Finnick hears an animal sound of pain and it takes a second before he realizes that it’s coming from his own throat. He chokes it off.

“Finnick, wake _up_!” Johanna shouts, running past him toward Brutus, whose arm is poised to let loose the spear in his hand. Aiming at Peeta, Brutus throws. Johanna hits him a moment later, but not soon enough to mar his throw. Finnick watches the spear fly toward Peeta’s chest and suddenly he can move again. Lifting his hand, he steps into the path of the spear, knocking it off course with his wrist as it tears the knife from his hand. Johanna bounces off Brutus’ massive chest and rolls to her feet, dancing out of the big man’s reach.

Something hits Finnick’s left leg and he looks down at the knife buried deep in the meat of his thigh. Looking up again, he sees Enobaria and Brutus disappear behind the Cornucopia. The knife has to be hers. Three cannons sound – BOOM BOOM BOOM – as Katniss sprints toward the horn and the rapidly retreating Careers. Finnick trails a few strides behind Johanna and Peeta as they give chase and although his injured leg threatens to give out on the first step, it grows steadier with each one that follows. He ignores the pain; he’s felt worse.

Brutus charges across the sand toward the jungle of the seven o’clock wedge, retreating in the face of greater than expected resistance, and Enobaria races up the sand strip toward him as her pursuers gain ground. There is a bone-deep grinding vibration beneath Finnick’s feet and with a jerk, the island on which the Cornucopia stands _moves_.

One moment Finnick and his allies are chasing the remaining Careers, the next the ground on which they run begins to spin, faster and faster. His leg finally does give out then, and Finnick is flung into the side of the golden horn he was passing when the ground began to shift; he barely has time to raise an arm to protect his head from the impact and then he is sliding across the sandy ground toward the water, scrabbling for something to hang onto.

xXx

Legs bent and her heels on the edge of her chair, Annie rests her cheek on her knees and watches her monitor, occasionally glancing at the readout on her console to check Finnick’s vital signs. Once the Cornucopia island stopped spinning, the group in the arena quickly located Beetee and Finnick towed him back to safety, pulling him out of the water while Katniss rescued his spool of wire; now Finnick stares at Katniss and Peeta as the two hold each other. It’s a scene frozen in time. No one says anything, neither tribute from 12 moves, and it’s been that way for a while. A trickle of watery blood from the hole in Finnick’s thigh draws Annie’s gaze. Transparent and more pink than red, once noticed she can’t force her eyes from it.

Beetee sits beside Finnick and turns his spool of wire over and over in his hands. The older man glances from the wire to Finnick’s injury and back again. Eventually, he tells Finnick, _“You should do something to stop the bleeding. Before it becomes problematic.”_

After a moment, Finnick drags his attention from the sparkling water that surrounds them to look at Beetee and then down at his leg. He pokes at it as if he’d forgotten the injury and Beetee only just reminded him of its existence; fresh blood wells, though not a lot. _“It’s not that deep. The water makes it look bloodier than it is.”_

 _“Still, it would be best to stop the bleeding altogether and cover the wound. Open cuts like that in a tropical setting can quickly become infected.”_ Finnick laughs as Beetee says, _“We need you, Finnick.”_

_“I doubt the Gamemakers bothered putting germs in here. What would be the point?”_

_“Wouldn’t surprise me at all,”_ Johanna interjects. _“Something ugly and flesh eating.”_ Finnick shoots her a look and she adds, smiling sweetly, _“Painful.”_

Someone slides a tray of hot food across the flat surface of the control console, covering up the various readouts. Annie looks up as Martin hooks a chair with his foot, pulling it closer to Annie and sitting beside her. “I’m a little early, but I didn’t think you’d mind.” The scents of tomato and cheese, meat and chili peppers rise with the steam from the plate on his tray. “Want some?”

Annie shakes her head and unfolds her legs, stretching them out in front of her, rotating her feet at the ankles to get rid of the pins and needles from sitting in one cramped position for too long. “No, thank you, Martin. I’ll get something in a few minutes.” She’s a little hungry, but she isn’t up for anything spicy.

Martin picks up a chip laden with melted toppings and nods toward the monitor. “I see our group has grown a bit.” He pops the loaded chip into his mouth.

“Grown and shrunk. Wiress died a few minutes ago.” He closes his eyes, stops chewing, then swallows a moment later.

“Damn. I liked Wiress.” He lifts his glass from the tray and downs half its contents in one long drink. “Looks like One’s out of it?” Annie nods.

“After Gloss killed Wiress, Katniss killed him. Then Johanna killed Cashmere.” All that blood, pooling on the sand, swirling in the water. Annie doesn’t know how her voice can sound so calm when she feels like there’s still a scream lurking just under the surface, trying to claw free when she thinks of the mercifully brief fight. When she looks away from Martin, the sight of Finnick, sitting between Beetee and Johanna and raising his arms in surrender, immediately draws her attention.

_“Enough! I’ll bandage it, but it isn’t bad enough to need stitches. Besides, all we have for something like that is Beetee’s wire.”_

Finnick rolls to his knees and then to his feet, walks over to the water’s edge and crouches down to splash more water onto his leg. Wincing, he lets loose a little hiss as the muscles of his thigh pull tight with the motion and more blood starts to well from the wound. Behind him, Beetee says something to Johanna, and Peeta and Katniss finally take a step apart, but they don’t move away from each other.

 _“Let’s get off this stinking island,”_ Johanna says, but any response from the others is lost in a commotion from the victors’ lounge. Annie and Martin turn as one toward the sound. A few seconds later, there’s a strange creature with two heads and a glowing red eye at the open door into the control room, but it quickly resolves into a camera operator followed by Caesar Flickerman.

“What the hell?” That’s Haymitch. Martin stands.

“Only working mentors are allowed in the control room,” he tells Flickerman and the woman who accompanies him, whose second head is really a large video camera. “You have to leave.” Flickerman, resplendent in his trademark sapphire sequins, ignores Martin. Instead, the man smiles hugely and opens his arms wide as he heads straight for Annie. In the arena, Finnick strips off his undershirt and ties it around his thigh as a bandage.

“Ah, Annie Cresta, you look even more lovely than you did five years ago, my dear.” Flickerman stops just a few inches away from Annie and steals Martin’s chair. Flipping the tail of his suit coat out of the way, he sits delicately and turns to face her. Leaning toward her, he takes both of her hands in his before she can stop him; the instant his grip lessens, she yanks her hands from his grasp and shrinks away from him, but she can only go so far. The woman holding the camera keeps it pointed steadily at Annie, who can’t escape its glowing red eye.

“Is it true that you and Finnick Odair are engaged to be married, Annie?” Flickerman demands with a smile made up of too many too-white teeth. Annie blinks several times rapidly, her heart racing in her chest, her blood roaring in her ears.

“What is this, Flickerman?” Martin grips the man’s shoulder in one hand and spins the chair around until Flickerman is facing him. But still the camera remains trained on Annie.

“Just getting a jump on the final eight interviews, Martin. With only nine tributes remaining as of this afternoon, I can’t imagine that Finnick won’t be among the eight.” He turns toward Annie again and whispers loudly, “If I were allowed to bet, my money would be on your fiancé, Annie.”

“How do you know about…?” Annie’s fingers curl in a death grip around the arms of her chair.

“Last night, when Finnick told Peeta about his fiancée, he used the name ‘Annie.’ Naturally, I assumed that he meant you.” Flickerman cocks his head to one side. “Was I wrong?”

“No…” Annie whispers, partly an answer to his question and partly a denial of the whole situation. Louder, she says, “I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Flickerman, get the fuck out of here,” Haymitch says, standing right behind the unnaturally tanned television star. Flickerman continues to ignore everyone but Annie.

“How long have you and Finnick been together, Annie? And how did that come about? Was it from the very first, when you were his tribute? Do you plan to have children, if he should win this Quarter Quell?”

Blood still roaring in her ears, Annie closes her eyes. She draws her feet back up into her chair and raises her hands to cover her ears. “My name is Annie Cresta,” she whispers, barely audible even to herself. “I am twenty-two years old. I am the victor of the seventieth Hunger Games. My home is—”

 _“Before they spun us. I was judging by the sun.”_ Finnick’s voice over her headset pushes back the looming darkness and her eyes fly open, gaze fixing on the monitor. Katniss stands facing him and a little to his left.

 _“The sun only tells us it’s going on four, Finnick,”_ the girl says. Caesar Flickerman touches Annie’s arm, focusing her attention back on him.

“This all must be very difficult for you, Annie.” There is sympathy in his voice and in his dark eyes; Annie doesn’t believe it for a minute. She lowers her hands from her ears and wraps her arms around her knees. “I just want the citizens of the Capitol, the people of Panem to understand Finnick as a human being. Far more sponsors and gifts are gained from the family interviews than any other single event during the Hunger Games.”

Annie frowns as she watches the man’s midnight blue lips move. She slowly drags her eyes up to meet his, but she doesn’t say anything right away, just stares at him until he blinks and begins to look uncertain, as though he’s not sure she’s quite sane, as if he fears she might become violent. Caesar Flickerman has long been one of Finnick’s “patrons.”

“Why?” she asks and Flickerman blinks.

“Why?” he repeats.

“You and the Capitol have never treated Finnick as a human being before. Why should you start now?” Flickerman blinks again and stiffens in his chair and Annie can see that he understands exactly what she means. Martin snorts. The camera keeps recording. Still standing behind Flickerman, Haymitch coughs into his hand, giving Annie a subtle thumbs up and she suddenly realizes that she isn’t alone, that these people in the control room, her fellow victors, will help her when she needs it. Flickerman opens his mouth to say something else, but Annie cuts him off. “I don’t have to talk to you.”

“You’re done here, Flickerman,” Martin tells him as he reaches to pull the talk show host bodily from the chair. “We have work to do.” On her monitor, Finnick and the others cross one of the land bridges toward the section of beach between what would be four and five o’clock, if the arena were truly a clock face.

Flickerman pushes the chair out of Martin’s reach. “But the people want to hear from the one person who has been able to force Finnick Odair to settle down,” he protests, remaining seated in Martin’s chair. The camera operator continues to film.

“Tough. She said no.” Martin crosses his arms over his chest. “Now why don’t you fly one of your flunkies out to District Four to talk to his family like you normally would?”

Flickerman starts to protest again, another attempt to convince Annie to talk to him, when Haymitch walks over and grabs a handful of cheesy, tomatoey goo from Martin’s plate and calmly smears it over the camera lens.

“Oops. How clumsy of me,” he says as the woman all but screams in outrage. “Won’t be much of an interview if your viewers can’t see it.” He smirks. “Looks like you’ll have to leave.” With a glance at Martin, who pulls Flickerman’s chair away from Annie, the two men move to stand shoulder to shoulder, a barrier between Annie and the Capitol man.

Annie begins to laugh as Peeta says, near enough to Finnick that his microphone picks it up clearly, _“Well, it must be monkey hour. And I don’t see any of them in there. I’m going to try to tap a tree.”_

xXx

Finnick sets the point of his knife, formerly Enobaria’s, to the bark of the tree. The blade has a smear of his blood near the handle and about the same time he notices that, he notices, too, the ache from the sliced muscles and skin of his thigh. He glances down, but no more blood seeps into his undershirt turned bandage. He and Katniss passed a tree on the way here covered with moss; he’ll take some of that back to camp and use it on his leg so he can reclaim his shirt. The less of his skin the Capitol can stare at the better.

Katniss is a surprisingly comforting presence with her bow at his back. If anything attacks, she won’t miss it. He begins to dig at the bark, wishing they hadn’t lost that awl. But thinking about the awl starts him to thinking about Mags, about losing her, and that starts him to thinking about Gloss and Cashmere. His hands begin to shake and his eyes to sting. He pushes into the tree again and nearly loses the knife, which twists in his hand. And that's why he's here instead of Peeta, trying to keep busy so he won't think too much about those they've lost.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Finnick clenches his fingers into a fist around the knife’s hilt. He pushes everything but the knife and the bark and the tree and the water within down and down to a place inside himself where it will take a while for those memories to rise again to the surface. He can’t deal with them right now. He can’t.

Katniss shifts behind him. Forcing his hands to relax, he gets a better grip on the knife and concentrates on digging, carving a hole first through the bark and then into the wood, deeper with each cross cut, until water starts to bubble out, not quite ready to flow.

“Katniss, got that spile?” Finnick asks over his shoulder. He leans down to pick up the bowl they brought to catch the water as Katniss cuts the spile from the vine at her waist and then drops it into his waiting hand. And that’s when they hear the scream.

A woman’s voice, at first Finnick assumes it’s one of their fellow tributes. He doesn’t know who, but he’s sure it’s not Johanna. Nor is it Enobaria. He can’t imagine either of them making such a lost and broken sound.

It takes less than a second for the thoughts to form. Before he comes to the conclusion that the voice belongs to no one he knows, Katniss is in motion, darting past him in a panic, running deeper into the jungle. “Prim! Prim!”

“Katniss! Stop!” Knife clutched in one hand, Finnick tucks the spile into his bandage under the knot, the most secure place he can think of. Abandoning the bowl, he sprints after Katniss. Even in her panic, she doesn’t leave much of a trail, but it’s easy enough for him to follow those screams and the answering screams of Katniss calling for Prim. Vines slash at his face and arms, cut across his chest as he jumps over rocks and more vines that snake across the jungle floor. He doesn’t feel the sting of the vines against his skin or the rocks under his bare feet; that will come later, when the crisis is over.

Finnick finally catches up to Katniss deep in the jungle at the center of a clearing just like the one they camped in the night before. Breathing heavily, a shudder overtakes her where she stands looking up into the trees. Shaking her head, she bends to pick up an arrow from the ground. There is blood on her hand.

“Katniss?”

“It’s okay.” She follows his gaze to her bloody hand, wipes away the blood; he doesn’t see any injury. “I’m okay. I thought I heard my sister, but—”

A piercing shriek cuts her off. Adrenaline pumps through Finnick at the sound as the blood roars in his head and his vision turns red. The jungle is hot but Finnick himself is suddenly cold as Annie’s voice slams into him and without thought, on pure instinct, he bolts toward the sound. He has to get to her. He has to stop them from hurting her anymore than they already have.

“Finnick, wait!”

He crashes through the trees trying to get to Annie, to stop those awful screams of pain and despair. He has no idea how far he runs or how long it takes, but he reaches a huge tree in another, smaller clearing. Her voice is coming from the branches, high off the ground. A tiny part of his brain, the only part still functioning, recognizes that this doesn’t make sense, but the panic drowns it out.

“Annie!” he calls from the base of the tree. “Annie!”

Something falls at Finnick’s feet and he nearly trips over it: a bird with an arrow where its eye used to be. He stares at it for a moment before understanding sinks in. A jabberjay. But where is Annie? She was in custody when the Games began, but the bread this morning said that the Peacekeepers let her go. Have they taken her again? What did they do to her to elicit those screams for the jabberjay to mimic? Are they torturing her even now? He stares in horror at the dead bird.

A few feet away, Katniss drops down from a tree and approaches Finnick cautiously. “It’s all right, Finnick. It’s just a jabberjay. They’re playing a trick on us. It’s not real. It’s not your… Annie.”

“No, it’s not Annie,” he says slowly, still staring at the bird. “But the voice was hers. Jabberjays mimic what they hear.” He looks up at Katniss, fear coursing through him. “Where did they get those screams, Katniss?” The blood drains from her face.

“Oh, Finnick, you don’t think they…?” She stops short of voicing the thought they both now share, that the Capitol is somehow torturing their loved ones for the sole purpose of hurting Katniss and Finnick in the arena.

“Yes. I do. That’s exactly what I think.” _Maybe Snow thinks we’ll panic and run into that damned force field._ Katniss sinks to her knees. “I don’t know how or where, but…” Before he can finish his thought, another voice in pain shatters the momentary silence and Katniss jumps up, ready to run again, but Finnick catches her arm. “No. It’s not him.” He doesn’t know who the voice belongs to, but it’s obvious that whoever it is, he’s important to Katniss. Pulling her along behind him, Finnick starts downhill, back toward the beach. “We’re getting out of here.” A particularly awful cry pushes Katniss to yank her arm free from Finnick’s grip, but he refuses to let her go. “It’s not him, Katniss! It’s a mutt. Come on!”

Her muscles tremble beneath his fingers as she fights the need to bolt, to chase down the source of these new screams and do something to make them stop. As they move rapidly through the trees, a second voice joins in and Finnick’s grip on Katniss’ arm tightens reflexively. This new voice belongs to his nephew Rhys.

All along their path, more voices join in, a nightmarish cacophony, layers of pain atop fear. His mother and sister, his nieces and nephews, brother and father alongside voices he doesn’t recognize but that Katniss clearly does, a chorus of the lost, and through and above it all, Annie.

More and more mutts, more and more voices. They can see the sunlit beach beyond the green twilight of the jungle and there at the edge are Johanna and Peeta and Beetee. Peeta and Johanna are both shouting, but Finnick can’t hear a thing over the warped and twisted voices of the people he loves. Choking on a sob, her puts on a burst of speed, dragging Katniss unresisting with him.

He focuses on Johanna as the only safety he can find against this storm. With the sound of Annie’s tormented shrieks the only thing he can hear, Finnick slams face first into an invisible wall. For a moment all goes dark, shot through with sparks as he goes down. He can feel the blood flowing over his mouth and chin, but he can’t feel the pain. Not yet.

Staring at Johanna, who still shouts at him, who pounds her fists against that wall, Finnick goes under. He can’t escape Annie’s terror or his own. As screaming birds surround him and Katniss, Finnick curls into himself. With no relief in sight, he does what he can to endure.

xXx

Sound is the first thing Annie becomes aware of. Voices mostly, although it takes her a few seconds to parse through what seem at first to be just random collections of syllables. Eventually they coalesce into words and sentences, thoughts given voice to become a conversation.

“Listen to him, girl. There’s no way they’d hurt Prim. Not for this.” Haymitch.

“You ever manipulate voices like that, Rae?” And that’s Martin.

“Of course,” Rae responds. “Like Beetee says, it’s something we learn to do as children, playing with sounds and images, trying to turn them into something else.”

Annie blinks. Nothing looks right. The lights are dim, much dimmer than she remembers, dimmer than they should be. She blinks again and things swim into focus: feet and legs, the bottom half of a chair. _Am I on the floor? But why?_

She tries to stand, hits her head, puts her hands out to her sides and hits walls. She’s not only on the floor, she’s under one of the control consoles. And she doesn’t think it’s the District 4 console; the angle is wrong for that, too.

“Annie?” She doesn’t remember closing her eyes, but when she opens them, Martin is crouched in front of her, holding out a hand. She takes it and he pulls her closer, helps her to her feet but then pushes her back down into a chair. Looking at the concerned faces of Haymitch and Rae and of Martin himself, it all comes flooding back, rolling over her in a frightening wave: the jabberjays, the screaming, watching Finnick collapse in the jungle, collapsing herself as she screamed that it wasn’t her and then crawling to perceived safety under the District 5 console. She has no idea why she thought she might find safety there.

“Finnick?” she asks, unable to articulate anything more specific than that. Her throat feels raw.

“He’s okay, Annie. The attack is over.” Martin turns her chair around so she faces the monitor. “See for yourself.”

On the beach just outside the jungle, Finnick is huddled in on himself, as though trying to present a smaller target. A couple of feet away, Peeta sits with Katniss in his lap, his arms wrapped tightly around her. Beetee sits cross-legged near them as Johanna stands, picks up a couple of large shells, and says something that causes Katniss to reach out and grab for her arm.

Annie frowns at the scene. “Here, child.” Rae holds out Annie’s abandoned headset. Thanking the older woman, Annie puts the headset in place and switches it on.

 _“—I love.”_ Johanna stalks toward the jungle, but Finnick’s voice stops her.

 _“You might want this.”_ He holds out his hand and Johanna slips a little in the sand as she changes direction toward him and takes the spile. The expression on Finnick’s face, like the tone of his voice, is blank, emotionless, as though the animating force within him has drained away. Annie has seen him like this before, but not for a long time.

“Annie?” She looks up at Martin. “He’s going to be fine. Your shift is over. Why don’t you go get some sleep? It’ll help, I promise.”

 _And if something happens while I’m gone? Will sleep help if he dies?_ She doesn’t say the words aloud, but she can’t stop herself from thinking them. Biting her lower lip, she turns back to the monitor. She doesn’t know what to do. Sleep is not even on the list, at the moment, although she’s sure a hot shower would be a good thing. Looking at the set of his shoulders and the far-off look in his eyes, Annie doesn’t believe that Finnick will be fine, but there isn’t anything she can do for him. Whatever good her gift of bread did him that morning was ripped away by manufactured screams and the worst kind of emotional and mental manipulation.

“Go, Annie,” Martin tells her. “You won’t be any good to him if you fall over from exhaustion.” In the arena, Beetee says Finnick’s name, but he doesn’t answer, doesn’t give any indication that he hears it.

“Do you really trust her on her own?” Annie looks over at Shale where he sits at the District 2 station, leaning back in his chair with his feet propped on his console. There’s no sign of Lyme. There must have been a shift change. “She already fell apart, what… Three times?” When she turns back toward Martin, Annie catches the worried expression on his face before he can mask it. Though he won’t put it so bluntly, part of him agrees with Shale.

“I’m right here,” she tells Shale, standing. “And it was twice. I fell apart twice.” She looks from Martin to Shale. “When Mags died doesn’t count.” When Mags died, she never lost track of her surroundings, never woke up minutes or hours later with no idea what happened in between.

“Annie…”

“It’s okay, Martin. _I’m_ okay .” She smiles at him as she switches off her headset and calmly hangs it on the edge of the console. The monitor shows Finnick walking into the water until he’s far enough out to dive, then switches to an underwater view that shows more or less what he sees as he swims toward a dark column, part of the structure of one of the land bridges. Annie turns away, closing her eyes for a second even as she touches the back of Martin’s hand. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

Feeling numb more than anything else, Annie walks out of the control room and down the stairs. The television in the victors’ lounge shows Chaff slashing wildly with a short sword, trying to cut himself free of the vines that have him entwined in voracious greenery, blood streaming from dozens of small wounds. Annie hurries past the TV to the elevator, hoping that he’ll be able to win free.

She pays little attention to her surroundings as she makes her way from the Headquarters Building to the Training Center. Cold in a way that has nothing to do with the summer heat in the courtyard, she walks with her arms wrapped around her torso, her eyes downcast. She runs through possibilities, searching for something that might let Finnick know that she’s alive and well, unharmed, that those screams didn’t belong to her, no matter how they sounded. Garlicky bread won’t work a second time.

Once in the District 4 rooms of the Training Center, Annie quickly strips off her clothes, steps into the shower and sets it for five minutes. Turning it up as hot as she can stand, she lets the spray melt away the uneasiness that covers her like a second skin. The drying mat, something she usually avoids in favor of an old-fashioned towel, quickly removes the excess moisture from her hair and skin. She doesn’t want to be this far away from the control room for any longer than she has to and she still wants to get something to eat before she goes back.

Returning to the bedroom, which feels abandoned even with her there, Annie dons fresh underclothes and jeans, then throws on the first shirt she finds, black and short-sleeved. Perching on the end of the bed, she puts on socks and shoes and takes a couple of steps toward the door before turning back. Stopping at the pile of discarded clothes, she fishes the lover’s knot out of the pocket of the jeans.

Staring at it for a moment, she traces with her eyes the lines of it, goes over the steps in her head that form the knot in the center of the cord. Slowly sitting on the edge of the bed, she lays the knotted cord on her thigh and places the back of her left wrist against it, then using her right hand and her teeth, she ties a quick square knot, making it into a bracelet. Satisfied she won’t lose it, Annie stands and heads for the door.

When the elevator doors open on the Training Center lobby, Annie walks over to the bar, taking a seat tucked into the corner. There are only a couple of other patrons there. The television over the bar shows the live broadcast of the Games.

“What can I get for you?” the man behind the bar asks her with a smile. Annie sees it in his eyes when he recognizes her, but otherwise his expression and demeanor don’t change and she relaxes a bit. _He’s probably used to victors_ , she thinks.

“I smelled something really good when I got off the elevator,” she says and his smile widens.

“Ah, yes.” He nods toward a couple seated at one of the tables, eating. “That would be the lamb stew. Would you like a bowl, Miss Cresta?”

“Please.” Behind his shoulder, Chaff sits on the jungle floor, surrounded by bits and pieces of vine, bandaging the worst of his wounds with moss.

“Coming right up.” He turns to place her order as the scene changes to Finnick walking from the water up the beach, lit up by the late afternoon sun. Rather than joining his friends, he goes to a stand of tall grass at the edge of the jungle. Crouching, he cuts off the blades at the ground, then takes them back onto the beach where he sits and starts to weave.

“I hope he wins.” Annie looks up as the bartender sets a glass of something blue in front of her. Before she asks, the man tells her, “This is one of Finnick’s favorites. It’s a little sweet for me, but I thought you might like to try it? If you don’t like it, I’ll bring you whatever you want.”

“You know Finnick?” She reaches for the drink and takes a sip. She’s had it before, a drink made with rum and a melon liqueur.

The man nods. “I’ve worked here for three years. He’s here almost every night, when he’s in the Capitol. We talk.” He shrugs. “I usually hit the gym before I leave for the night, so sometimes we work out together.” Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith are talking about the family interviews coming up later that evening, now that the Games are down to the final eight tributes. Annie shudders as she realizes that someone else must have died while she was in the Training Center. “Do you want me to turn the sound down?” Startled, Annie shakes her head.

“No, it’s fine.” The scene returns to Finnick, still sitting on the beach, still weaving. It quickly changes to Enobaria and Brutus, him cutting into a tree while she paces behind him, watching their surroundings. She reminds Annie of a caged tiger she saw in the Capitol during her Victory Tour. A woman bearing a tray rounds the corner and the bartender waves her in.

“Enjoy the stew, Miss Cresta,” he tells her and starts to turn away.

“Annie.” He turns back toward her, eyebrows raised. “I’m Annie.”

“Remus.” He smiles and rather than turning away, he moves closer. Glancing around the bar, he leans in toward Annie, resting his arms on the chrome surface. “We – the Training Center staff – we took up a collection. It wasn’t a lot, just a couple hundred, but I thought you should know. We may not be rich, but Finnick has friends here, Annie.” Without waiting for her to respond, he heads to the other end of the bar, where a new customer pulls out a stool.

About halfway through her bowl of stew, which tastes as good as it smells, the cameras focus on Finnick once more. Finished weaving, there are four bowls of various sizes arranged on the sand in front of him. He stares at the knife in his hand, drawing the blade lightly up his arm and back down to balance the tip on the point of one finger. It doesn’t look to Annie like he sees the blade at all.

 _“I used to take it out every day…”_ She hears his voice from five years ago, when she was the tribute and he the mentor, telling her without ever saying it outright of how he used to think about suicide. She watches him play with the blade in his hands now and knows that she has to do something. He won’t kill himself, she’s sure of that, but the place he’s in now, after losing Mags, after the jabberjays, after _everything_ , she’s equally sure that he won’t think twice about sacrificing himself for his friends.

Annie takes a last bite of stew and then stands. She looks down as something tickles her wrist, sees the rope bracelet and suddenly she knows what she has to do, if the rules of the Games will allow it. All but running from the lobby toward the doors to the courtyard and the Headquarters Building beyond, she feels Remus’ eyes on her as he watches her go.

She doesn’t slow down when she reaches the victors’ lounge. Running up the steps to the control room two at a time, she bursts through the door. A little bit winded, she gasps, “Can I send… well, a piece of rope? A specific piece?” Everyone in the room turns toward where she hangs onto the doorknob for support while she regains her balance.

“You mean can you send something that’s nothing more than a message to Finnick?” Haymitch asks, sounding amused. Annie nods. “So long as it’s something useful…”

“Like with the bread this morning? There’s a knot Finnick taught me just before he left for his last visit to the Capitol. He’ll know that I made it, so maybe he’ll know I wasn’t hurt for those birds’ awful sounds.” Before Haymitch or anyone else can respond, Annie continues, “I know him, Haymitch. He’s thinking about doing something stupid or reckless. I have to do something.” Haymitch nods and she can see in his eyes that he understands, that he, too, has seen Finnick like this.

Before she’s even finished speaking, Martin is on the phone. While he talks to the person on the other end, Annie hurries over to the District 4 console where Martin pulls up a screen that shows the funds available. She frowns. The number there is far less than it was that morning, but they sent no gifts into the arena since the bread. _Unless Martin sent something while I was gone?_ She taps on Martin’s shoulder to get his attention and points to the total.

“Hang on a second,” he says to the person on the other end before muting the call. “What’s up?”

“Did you send him anything?” Martin shakes his head.

“No. I was thinking about maybe a first aid kit, but between the saltwater and the moss, I don’t think he needs it. Why?”

“Because that number is half what it was this morning, and the only thing I sent him was a loaf of bread.” He snorts.

“The most exotic bread in the country would still cost less than a hundred.”

“Martin, someone told me not fifteen minutes ago that he and some friends donated two hundred for Finnick. That total should be _higher_ than it was after the bread, not lower.” Annie can hear the growing panic in her voice, but she can’t stop it; she’s scared. “What’s going on?” Haymitch puts a hand on her shoulder and leans in closer to Martin.

He covers his microphone with one hand and whispers, “Snow. It’s got to be. The total for my kids is lower, too.” Martin’s eyes widen and both he and Haymitch turn toward Rae at the District 3 console. Martin motions her over and signals for her to turn off her headset. Haymitch fills her in and while she goes to check her own screens, Martin picks up his call to the Fulfillment Center.

“We need a length of cord sent over here to the control room. … No, I don’t care what color. Just make sure it’s light weight. … Twenty feet? … Yes. How much will it cost?” He whistles. “Why the hell so much? It’s just a piece of rope.” He clenches his jaws as he listens. “Alright, hold that thought.” He punches a button, switches to a different line and makes another call.

“Claudia, how are you?” Martin’s voice is completely different and Annie shivers. “No, I’m in the Capitol. I’m mentoring this year. … Yes, that’s what I’m calling about. For Finnick.” He looks at Annie for a moment, but then his eyes slide away. “Anything you want. … That’s very generous of you, Claudia. … Now would be good. … I’m looking forward to it, too.” When he hangs up, he doesn’t look happy; Annie feels sick. She doesn’t know what to say about what she’s sure just happened, what Martin agreed to in order to get enough money for her to send a message to Finnick. When he refreshes the total funds available a few seconds later, he mouths a thank you and picks up the call he left on hold.

“Yes, we have the money. Send the rope to the mentors’ control room now and then a runner in an hour and we’ll have it ready.” He smiles at Annie. “Your turn.”

“Martin, did you just…?”

“It’s okay, Annie. It’s for a good cause.” Her vision blurs as she looks at Haymitch and Rae at Rae’s station. Neither of them heard Martin’s call. When the tears spill over, she can’t make them stop.


	30. Something to Believe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: situations of dubious consent
> 
> The title is from "Believe" by The Bravery. Bits of dialogue are directly from Catching Fire, but I tried to keep it to a minimum.

**Chapter Thirty - Something to Believe**

Finnick’s muscles are rigid as the screams build, hers and his, an auditory matched set. He can’t tear his gaze away from the sight of Annie bound naked to the cold metal table beside him, electrodes attached at several points along her body as well as at each temple. Just like his own. He feels the hair on the back of his neck stand on end as the electrical charge builds along with the temporarily trapped screams. Annie’s back arches with the force of it, and so does Finnick’s, sand shifting beneath him, his fingers digging in.

CRACK!

Finnick wakes with a strangled cry. Darkness surrounds him. Darkness and stifling humidity. The night is hot, but with only the moon’s light to heat the atmosphere it’s no longer broiling. He lets the sand in his fists spill to the ground as he sits upright and looks around. Without conscious thought, he picks at the few grains stuck under his fingernails.

Johanna sleeps a few feet to his left, not quite close enough for either of them to reach out and touch the other, not necessarily a bad thing. At least he didn’t wake her. Beyond Jo, Beetee shifts from his side to his back and then returns to his side, his movements jerky; Finnick isn’t sure if he’s more asleep or awake, but either way, he’s probably still in pain. A few yards in the opposite direction, Katniss and Peeta sit close together on the beach, keeping watch.

When Finnick lay down a little while ago – less than an hour, he judges, since it must have been the midnight lightning strike that woke him – the two were side by side, one facing the water and the other the jungle. They don’t seem to have moved much from that position. For a moment, Finnick thinks about trying to go back to sleep, but even the thought of it sets the screams to scratching at the back of his brain. He laughs silently at himself. _I don’t think I’ll ever be able to sleep again._ Pushing up from the sand, he walks over to Peeta and Katniss; since he can’t sleep, one of them should.

He tells them just that as he approaches, but it isn’t until they break hastily apart that he realizes they had actually changed position quite a bit in the brief time he was asleep. Finnick grins, amused at the guilt on their faces, easily visible in the moonlight. “Or both of you. I can watch alone.” He wonders if he should remind them that there are cameras everywhere.

Katniss opens her mouth to respond but quickly closes it again, not sure what to say. Finnick doesn’t try to suppress a smirk, adds in a wink, just for her reaction. Her eyes widen and she looks away from him, finding something utterly engrossing out on the water.

Peeta shakes his head and tells Finnick, “It’s too dangerous.” He glances at Katniss, who refuses to look at either him or Finnick. “I’m not tired. You should lie down, Katniss.” Before she can protest, he rolls to one knee and takes Katniss’ hand. Levering himself up, he leads her over to the others. Finnick hears them whispering to each other as they walk away, although the sound is far too faint for him to hear what they say even before they move out of range.

A slight breeze wafts in from the water, smelling of salt and seaweed. Momentarily alone, Finnick shuts his eyes against the homesickness. He lowers himself to the sand and folds his legs in front of him and for an instant it doesn’t just smell like home, it feels like home, too, if he ignores the details. It’s just him sitting on the beach after a long day, trying to let go of a particularly bad nightmare. But then reality crashes into him on jabberjay wings, threatening to swamp him with the very real possibility that he won’t wake from this particular nightmare.

Once the wave of emotion passes, he opens his eyes again, forces himself to watch the play of the moonlight in a shimmering path across the water toward the Cornucopia. It helps him to push the mockery of the voices of those he loves down into the Mags-shaped hole inside. A cloud passes over the moon and the Cornucopia goes dark for a few seconds before shimmering silvery gold again. He wonders where Enobaria and Brutus are, if they’re hiding inside the horn. Given the well-earned arrogance of Careers, it’s exactly the sort of thing they’d do.

Finnick stares at the dark smudge that is the island in the center of the arena. More power to them, if they can survive this thing; Heavensbee’s promise to get as many victors out alive as he can wasn’t restricted to just those in the alliance to protect the Mockingjay. President Snow betrayed them all, from the most loyal to the least, whether they’re here in the arena or at home in their Victors’ Villages watching their friends die. But that line of thought leads to Gloss and Cashmere, dead at the hands of those who could have – _should_ have – been friends, who _were_ a kind of family. And that leads again to Mags, who sacrificed herself for Annie, for him, for Katniss, for a fledgling hope of freedom.

_“Isn’t it bad enough she and her little boyfriend were pushed into that whole wedding farce in the first place? Now the good citizens of the Capitol get even more entertainment out of watching her fight for her life again while we, the supposed good guys, use her as a symbol to what? Start a war?”_

It’s hard to believe that only three weeks ago he and Jo sat in a back room at the Abyss with Plutarch Heavensbee while she gave the Gamemaker crap for using Katniss without her knowledge.

 _“Exactly. Katniss Everdeen is our Mockingjay. She’s our best chance to light the districts on fire. Our best chance to light the_ Capitol _on fire at the same time.”_

And Heavensbee was so in love with his plans and dreams that he hadn’t even noticed Jo’s criticism at first. Not until Finnick had asked, _“Does_ she _know that?”_

_“No, she doesn’t. Haymitch feels it’s safer if neither she nor the boy know about it just yet.”_

He’d at least had the decency to sound troubled by it, but that still hadn’t been enough for Johanna to let Plutarch off the hook.

 _“Fabulous. We get to be just as bad as Snow and his buddies.”_ Finnick had agreed with her then. He still feels that way now. Except…

Scooping up a handful of sand, cool against the palm of his hand, Finnick lets it trickle between his fingers; once gone, he repeats the motion, again and again. The Mockingjay. _Their_ Mockingjay. Katniss. She still knows nothing of their plans, of any promises, whether freely given or begrudged, although he’s sure she’s learned some hard lessons in betrayal since she and Peeta were crowned.

In the handful of days Finnick has known her, he understands better why Haymitch made it such a point of contention that she know nothing about their rebellion, either her place in it or even that there _is_ one. She’s learning, but she’s too easy to read in those moments before she pulls the mask into place. It would be too easy for her to accidentally betray them in some subtle way without even realizing it. Finnick understands the decision to keep her in the dark, but it still doesn’t sit right with him.

When Peeta returns a few minutes later, Finnick is still staring out at the water, still letting sand trickle between his fingers. He glances at the younger man as Peeta lowers himself to the beach and carefully arranges his artificial leg in front of him, facing the jungle. Finnick is grateful for that; he can’t even bear to look toward those trees, the horror of that afternoon still too raw. He almost has himself convinced that the jabberjays learned Annie’s screams from recordings of her Games, that they weren’t the result of recent torture.

Almost.

“It wasn’t her, you know.” Finnick looks sharply at Peeta.

“Am I that obvious?” Peeta glances over at Finnick, but then he shrugs and looks back toward the trees.

“It’s what I’d be thinking about, if I was out here by myself.”

“It wouldn’t be the same, though, would it? The woman you love is in here with you.” Peeta doesn’t respond to that right away; when he does, his voice is quiet. Thoughtful.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Katniss is here. The jabberjays wouldn’t have worked so well against me.” He shifts so that he can look at both Finnick and the jungle, his bad leg stretched out in front of him. “But none of those voices was real, Finnick. It wasn’t your Annie. It wasn’t Katniss’s little sister. It wasn’t… Well, it wasn’t any of them.”

“But it _was_ their voices.” Finnick draws his knees up toward his chest and wraps his arms around them, suddenly cold in spite of the lingering heat. “Maybe Annie’s was from her Games. Maybe they warped my family’s voices from interviews ten years ago, but…” A relentless voice inside his head reminds him that Annie is within easy reach of Snow and his Peacekeepers, that Rhys was only three during Finnick’s first Games and that his voice is very different now than it was then. He chokes that voice off.

“But you’re still not convinced.” Finnick shudders. Peeta huffs out a breath that could be a laugh, could be a sigh. “Neither is Katniss. Not really.”

“You didn’t hear them, Peeta.” He turns his head, sees the sympathy reflected in those blue eyes, the color heightened by the moonlight. After a moment, he turns back toward the water and they’re both silent for a time. A few wedges away, the blood rain begins like a clock chiming one. Finnick can’t help thinking of Blight, of how it could have been Johanna who died or Beetee. Jo’s death would have hurt him more, but Beetee’s would have been disastrous to them all.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” Peeta says, still looking into the darkness of the jungle.

“Ask away.” Finnick grins. “But I don’t promise to answer.” Expecting a personal question, something about his life as a victor or what he wanted to be when he grew up or what is it between him and Johanna, Peeta asks none of these things.

“Why are you trying to keep me alive?” Startled, Finnick can’t immediately put an answer together, part of him wondering if he somehow gave something about their plans away. But Peeta continues, “Yesterday, after I hit the force field and then again today. If you hadn’t stepped between me and Brutus’s spear, I’d be dead. But instead, you got hurt protecting me.” Finnick starts to relax.

“It was nothing,” he says and Peeta shifts so that he’s half facing Finnick and half facing the jungle.

“It was not nothing! This is the arena, Finnick. Remember? Twenty-four go in but only one comes out? You should have let me die yesterday.” He stops talking for a few seconds, stares down at the ground. “And the female morphling, with the monkeys...”

“Linna.” Peeta looks up at Finnick, a question in his eyes. “Her name was Linna. She wasn’t always so far gone to the morphling.” Peeta nods, looking as though he’s making a mental note of the information, cataloguing it away in his mind. But it doesn’t distract him for long.

“So why are you trying to keep me alive?”

Finnick turns so that he’s facing away from the younger man, hoping that it looks to anyone watching as though he’s putting an end to the conversation. Covering with his hand the tiny lump of the tracker beneath the skin of his right forearm, hoping to deaden the microphone pickup embedded there with an extra layer of bone and muscle, he rests his head on his arms. With the lower half of his face to some extent obscured so that the ever-present cameras won’t see him as he speaks, Finnick lowers his voice to just barely above a whisper. He doesn’t think about what he’s about to do, to say, he just follows his instincts.

“There are some things you need to know.” He smiles grimly, hearing the echo in his words of the night he told his family the truth about his life. “Listen closely, because I can’t risk saying anything louder than this, and I don’t want to repeat it. If you understand… I don’t know. Pick up a handful of sand or something.”

Beside him, after a brief hesitation Peeta shifts away from Finnick, facing more fully toward the jungle. He picks up a handful of sand and lets it fall again to the ground. Given the part of their conversation that all of Panem could have heard only moments before, the motion is as natural as it can be and Finnick breathes a sigh of relief. Choosing his words carefully, needing to tell Peeta some of what’s going on, but not enough to endanger the others if something goes wrong, he begins.

“There’s a plan – I don’t know the details – but there is a plan to get as many of us out of here alive as possible.” There’s dead silence beside Finnick as Peeta holds his breath. “But the one person we _have_ to get out is Katniss.”

“I don’t understand,” Peeta finally whispers, looking toward the ground, his lips barely moving.

“Everything centers on Katniss.” Finnick pauses, looks out over the water as if the words he needs might be floating there. But of course they aren’t. He moves so that his voice is aimed a little more toward Peeta. “When you two won last year, you – _she_ – lit a spark that Snow has been scrambling to contain ever since.”

“Rebellion…” Something in the way he breathes the word tells Finnick that it’s not a new thought. His next words confirm it. “Katniss saw something on our Victory Tour. District Eight…”

Finnick fights the urge to nod. “Not here.” Peeta seems to almost literally swallow his questions and Finnick half smiles. “We – me, Johanna, Linna, Chaff if we ever manage to hook up with him – we all swore that we’d give our own lives to save Katniss and you.” Peeta blinks at that, but resists looking at Finnick.

Scrubbing his hand over his face as though trying to keep himself awake, Peeta says, “I understand Katniss, but why me?” Finnick huffs a breath of a laugh.

“We need you as much as we need Katniss. She won’t do anything without you.” Peeta snorts, turns it into a cough to cover up the slip as Finnick continues, “I’d like to think she trusts me at least a little by now, but…” Facing toward the ground, Finnick shifts his eyes to look at Peeta. “I need you to help me and Jo. Katniss might cooperate with us if it comes from you.”

Before Finnick can say anything else or Peeta can ask another question, a parachute floats down from the sky and lands not far from Peeta. He rolls toward it and snags an edge of the parachute, just within reach. Dragging it over, he hands the bundle to Finnick, who shoots him a look.

“It could be for you, you know.” It’s a relief to not have to whisper.

“I doubt it.”

Taking the container from Peeta, Finnick shrugs and opens it, not sure what to expect. It almost has to be for either him or Peeta, with the timing of it and the fact that it landed near them rather than farther down the beach where the others lay sleeping.

Inside is a length of rope, thin but strong. Puzzled, wondering why one of their mentors thinks they might need rope, Finnick pulls it out and then, choking off a sob, he nearly drops it. Eyes wide and stinging as they fill with sudden tears, he traces the lines of an eternity knot, loose and inexpertly formed, with the tip of his finger. He lifts the knot, watering eyes moving immediately to a second eternity knot and then a third, a fourth, each one tighter than the last as though the woman who made them gained confidence with the making. There are dozens of knots in the rope and Finnick can no longer hold back the sobs, a combination of relief and despair.

“I guess it really was for you.” Finnick is incapable of speech just then, so he simply nods, clinging to this new lifeline.

xXx

With a gasp, Annie opens her eyes. Darkness surrounds her, thick, oppressive. For a moment she has no idea where she is. Everything feels wrong, smells wrong. She reaches out a hand to Finnick’s side of the bed only to find that not only is he not there, but the bed on which she lies is too narrow. There is no Finnick’s side of the bed.

She sits upright, her heart still pounding from the nightmare that woke her, but that nightmare is already fading as she stares into the darkness. All she recalls is a feeling of tumbling through cold, dark water. That and fear. The fear was a living, breathing thing; Annie still feels it clinging to her like a second skin. She shudders, leans forward and puts her head in her hands.

Closing her eyes tightly for a moment, tightly enough that she sees lightning against the insides of her eyelids, Annie opens them again as she remembers where she is, why Finnick isn’t in the bed beside her. Her gaze catches on the faintly lit outline of a door a few feet away. That door leads into the victors’ lounge.

“No.” A man’s voice, she doesn’t know who it belongs to. “Please. Stop!” He seems to be in the throes of his own nightmare in the far corner of the room. She thinks briefly of trying to wake him, but that’s never a good idea with a victor. Haymitch isn’t the only one who sleeps with a knife. Instead, Annie swings her legs over the side of the cot and stands. Walking carefully, not wanting to trip over unseen cots in the dark, she makes her way to the door and quietly slips out.

When she went into the little sleeping room off the lounge following a light dinner with Rae and Lyme, it was about nine o’clock. Annie glances at the clock over the television: 11:48. Although she seems to have managed a fairly decent nap, she still feels close to exhaustion. Her eyes pass over the image of the Games on the big screen – it’s Chaff, not Finnick – and she dials up a cup of strong black coffee. Cup in hand, she heads upstairs to relieve Martin.

At the top of the stairs, the door to the control room is closed. Frowning as she crosses to it, Annie reaches for the knob. In her admittedly limited experience, that door is usually propped open. Stepping into the control room, she allows the door to close behind her.

Annie doesn’t see anyone right away. The stations that line the far wall are empty, but then movement to her left catches her attention and she turns in that direction. The mentors for the six districts still in the Games sit or stand around the District 3 console. Rae, Martin, and Lyme sit facing Haymitch, Acer, and a woman Annie doesn’t know. On screen, Katniss and Peeta sit on the beach between the others and the jungle, keeping watch over Finnick, Johanna, and Beetee as the three sleep. Finnick and Beetee are both restless.

“—be confirmed at approximately eight tomorrow morning,” Rae is saying as she toggles a switch on her headset.

“I just hope that gives them enough time.” Lyme sounds dubious.

Seeing them gathered there, their serious expressions, hearing the determined timber of Rae’s voice, Annie’s heart rate nearly doubles. “Did something happen?” She can’t think of any _good_ reason for all of them to be there like that. If her cup was less sturdy, hot coffee would be everywhere, her grip is so tight.

“Annie!” Martin looks at the watch on his wrist and then up at the clock over the door. “I guess it _is_ about that time, isn’t it?” It takes a moment for her fear to register with him. “No! No, nothing happened. For a wonder.” He grins as the others start to drift back to their stations, but it seems forced. He pushes away from Rae, back toward the District 4 console. Annie can’t decide if he looks guilty somehow or not.

“Then did I interrupt something?” she asks, not convinced. Haymitch claps a hand on her shoulder as he passes.

“Nothing you need to worry about, sweetheart.” She watches as he drops heavily into his chair. The unknown woman walks past him to sit down at the District 11 console and Annie remembers that she was the one who was so upset when Seeder died the first morning of the Games.

Martin is hanging up his headset when Annie joins him. “Don’t look at me like that,” he says to her. “Finnick is fine. His pulse and respiration are up a little. I’m assuming a nightmare. Other than that, the arena is quiet.”

“Isn’t that when the Gamemakers are most likely to interfere?” Annie sits, setting down her coffee and pulling on her headset. As soon as she switches it on, she hears Finnick murmur her name in his sleep.

Martin stands and pushes his chair under the console. Shaking his head, he says, “They should be fine for several hours. They’re smart, Annie. And they all know how this works. They moved camp to the ten o’clock wedge after the wave passed through.” He raps his knuckles once sharply against the console, his expression not exactly troubled, but not the open Martin Perch that she’s come to know. In the arena, Finnick wakes with a strangled cry. Annie’s gaze flies to her screen. Katniss and Peeta are so close together she can’t see where one ends and the other begins. Beyond them, Finnick scrubs his hands over his face and rolls to his feet.

“What aren’t you telling me, Martin? What were you all talking about when I came in? What ‘confirmation?’”

“Nothing is wrong, Annie.” He checks his watch again. “I’d better get going. Don’t want to be late.” Annie’s vision blurs as he effectively sidesteps her questions, his meaning dawning on her as she remembers the reason he has to be somewhere else in the first place.

She starts to let him go, picks up her coffee, but before she takes a sip, something else occurs to her. She calls Martin’s name and he stops with his hand on the doorknob. “When did they deliver the rope? Did Finnick understand the message?” He frowns.

“Actually, they haven’t delivered it yet.” His hand falls from the knob and he returns to their station.

“Shouldn’t it have dropped by now? What’s taking so long?” Annie carefully sets her cup back down. Her hands are shaking. Martin doesn’t answer her, just puts his headset back on and motions for her to click through to the shared feed.

_“Fulfillment center. What can I do for you, District Four?”_

“You can tell me why that very expensive rope we ordered hasn’t dropped yet,” Martin demands of the voice on the other end.

There’s a tapping of keys as the man responds, _“That order was supposed to have been finalized two hours ago.”_

“Yeah, I know.”

_“Huh. Status says it’s under review.”_

“Okay, thanks.”

“Martin?” He holds up a finger to tell Annie to give him a moment.

“Claudia, I may have to beg off for tonight.” As Martin listens to the other end of his call, Annie realizes that she’s no longer on a shared feed. Which is just as well. She doesn’t want to hear his part of this conversation, let alone Claudia’s. “Well, no, the money passed through the account and the gift is ready to go, but it’s being held up. ‘Under review,’ the fulfillment center said when I checked a minute ago.”

“I hate this,” Annie whispers.

Martin reaches over and squeezes her hand even as he says, “Thank you, Claudia. I’ll wait for your call.” He takes off his headset again and starts to pull away, but Annie grips his hand.

“You don’t have to do this, Martin.”

He smiles at her. “Yeah, Annie, I do.”

“Your wife…” His smile fades.

“This isn’t the first time, Annie. That’s part of why Elena visits her parents whenever I’m in the Capitol.” He strokes her cheek. “Don’t worry about me. Claudia isn’t a bad sort.”

Annie bites her lower lip as he walks away, letting him go this time. Haymitch holds the door open for Martin and then walks out with him. It isn’t until Annie’s lip begins to sting and she tastes the coppery tang of blood that she releases the pressure on it. Licking at her lip, she turns back to her screen. Finnick sits on the beach, looking out over the water, picking up handfuls of sand and letting it sift through his fingers. He looks up when Peeta lowers himself to the ground beside him, facing toward the jungle, one leg flat out in front of him and the other bent at the knee.

 _“It wasn’t her, you know,”_ Peeta says once he’s comfortable. Finnick glances toward him.

 _“Am I that obvious?”_ Peeta watches Finnick for a second or two, but then shrugs and turns again to the trees.

_“It’s what I’d be thinking about, if I was out here by myself.”_

_“It wouldn’t be the same, though, would it? The woman you love is in here with you.”_

Curling into herself in her chair, Annie raises her hands to cover her ears, but she only succeeds in pressing the headphones more tightly to her head, drowning out any background noise from the control room and making the ensuing conversation in the arena that much clearer. She could take off the headset, but she doesn’t as Finnick and Peeta talk. Jabberjays. The tortured voices of loved ones. What’s real and what isn’t, a twisted version of Finnick’s reassurances to her when she became confused, except that this time Finnick is on the receiving end and there’s nothing she can do to make him understand that it wasn’t real. The only thing she _could_ do to help him is “under review,” stalled in some Capitol-contrived – _Snow contrived?_ – limbo. _Am I becoming paranoid?_ she wonders.

 _“But it_ was _their voices.”_ Annie looks up again, sees Finnick draw his knees up toward his chest, huddling in on himself in much the same way that she is right now. _“Maybe Annie’s was from her Games. Maybe they warped my family’s voices from interviews ten years ago, but…”_ He sounds frightened. Lost. Finnick and Peeta continue to talk, but Annie no longer hears them; she’s lost in the screams of jabberjays, in her own screams, in the forever silenced screams of her abruptly headless district partner, a boy she’d known for years. She doesn’t feel the tears as they slide down her cheeks, doesn’t see the monitor on which her gaze is fixed.

After a time, Annie becomes aware of a soothing hand stroking her hair. She looks up at Rae. “Hush, child.” The older woman continues to stroke her hair, but she doesn’t say anything else and Annie closes her eyes, leaning into the rhythmic motion. Mags used to do this. And once, long ago, when Annie was small, her mother used to. She lets herself drift, feels her locked muscles begin to relax.

“It really was my voice the jabberjays used,” she tells Rae. “It was me, when my district partner was… when Erik died. I screamed until my voice gave out. I screamed and I ran and now they’ve used that as a weapon against Finnick and I can’t take it back and I can’t make it stop because they won’t let me _do_ anything to tell him it was me but that it wasn’t _me_.” She isn’t making any sense, but she doesn’t care. And Rae seems to understand her just fine anyway.

“Martin’ll get it straightened out, Annie, and then Finnick will know that you’re here with us. That you’re as safe as you _can_ be.” At the mention of Finnick’s name, Annie’s gaze drifts again to her monitor where he still sits looking out over the water. _Safe as I_ can _be… That’s not saying much, but it’s better than nothing, right?_

She’s about to respond to Rae when a silver parachute drifts into the scene in front of her and Annie stiffens, leans forward as Peeta, who is closer to where the parachute lands, snags it by the cords that attach the silver fabric to the metal basket. Annie’s fingers dig into the arms of her chair and Rae’s hand stills on Annie’s shoulders. Finnick looks up as Peeta hands the basket to him.

 _“It could be for you, you know,”_ Finnick observes, raising one eyebrow in question even as he shrugs and accepts the bundle.

 _“I doubt it,”_ Peeta says as Finnick unfastens the latch holding the basket closed. Annie holds her breath as he opens it.

Frowning, Finnick removes a coil of thin rope from the basket and starts to pull at one end, but then stops abruptly with a choked-off gasp and nearly drops the whole thing. As if it might turn around and bite him – or as if it might disappear in a puff of smoke if he makes one wrong move – he almost reverently traces the shape of the first knot with the tip of his index finger. He slowly lifts it to find the second knot worked a few inches further into the rope. He keeps lifting, finding more and more knots.

Annie sees the glitter of tears on his cheeks, hears a kind of whimpering noise over her headset and realizes that he’s fighting not to cry. As the knots keep coming – Annie’s fingers are still a little raw from working more than three dozen eternity knots into what turned out to be a fifty-foot rope – Finnick loses the fight, dropping the rope to the sand and burying his face in his hands. His shoulders shake with the force of it as he flat out sobs.

 _“I guess it really was for you,”_ Peeta says; Annie barely hears him over the sounds Finnick makes.

“You go ahead and cry if you need to, child.” Rae cups Annie’s cheek in the palm of her hand; Annie had forgotten she was still standing there. “No one’ll think less of you for it.”

Annie can’t stop the tears then, and Rae’s kind face seems to dissolve. Annie can feel the others watching, but it doesn’t matter. Rae puts her arms around Annie and lets her cry. Finally, more than a little embarrassed, Annie pulls away. She wipes at her eyes with the hem of her shirt.

“Annie.” She looks up at Rae, forces herself to meet the older woman’s eyes. “Things have a way of working themselves out. He’s still alive. And it looks like he understood your message to him. That has to count for something.” Blinking, Annie nods.

“I’m sorry about your shirt.” Rae half smiles and then looks down at the dark splotches on her stomach where Annie’s tears soaked into the fabric. She laughs.

“You are not the first young person to give me a soaking, Annie Cresta.” Still chuckling, she returns to her seat, looking down at her console, no doubt checking on Beetee’s vital signs. Annie moves her chair closer to her own console. A quick glance shows that Finnick’s vitals are at the high end of normal; she can see on her screen that he’s no longer crying. She zooms in on him, wishing she could be there with him, wishing she could hold him.

She isn’t sure how long they sit that way, she in the control room, Finnick and Peeta in the arena, when Peeta shifts. He stands, stretching his arms over his head as he yawns. Almost reflexively, Annie reaches for her coffee and takes a sip, then frowns; her coffee long since grew cold.

 _“Go get some sleep, Peeta.”_ The younger man looks down at Finnick.

_“No. Like I said earlier, it’s too dangerous to keep watch by yourself.”_

_“It’s better than worrying about you falling over from exhaustion if we have to run again.”_ Finnick grins, stretching out on the sand and leaning back on his elbows.

_“You haven’t had much more sleep then I have, Finnick.”_

_“Ah, but I have two good legs.”_ Annie looks at the bloodstained undershirt tied around Finnick’s thigh.

“I don’t know about that,” she says softly to no one.

 _“That’s not fair,”_ Peeta protests and Finnick’s grin fades.

 _“Survival never is.”_ Peeta can’t seem to stop another, almost violent yawn and Finnick presses his advantage. _“Johanna and I were supposed to start our watch between two and three. I’ll only be alone for what? An hour? An hour and a half?”_

Peeta sighs loudly and then laughs; the sound brief, but genuine. _“You win.”_ He takes a step toward the sleepers, but Finnick stops him before he gets far.

 _“Before you go, do me a favor?”_ Peeta walks back over to Finnick, who is sitting upright again and cutting through an end of the knotted rope with his knife. He stands and hands the length to Peeta. _“Tie this around my wrist for me?”_ Annie smiles as Peeta fastens the first of her knots, the least expertly formed of them, around Finnick’s right wrist. Annie wonders what happened to the gold bangle he wore there at the start of the Games, although she’s not too surprised that it’s gone.

A few minutes later, Finnick is alone on watch. Stroking the knot at his wrist, he raises his face to the sky. _“Thank you for the token, Annie. Or I guess tokens.”_ He smiles, not one of his Capitol smiles, but a real one. It quickly fades. _“I was so afraid. Again. First it was what happened the morning the Games began. And then this afternoon, with the jabberjays.”_ He looks back down at the rope and his voice drops so that she can barely hear it when he says, _“Fucking Peacekeepers. Fucking Snow.”_

She sees that he has unworked several, though not all, of her knots and is using the resulting rope to work his own knots. Over and over again, just as he did earlier using the vines. _“This is sure to be edited out, but I know if you’re in the control room right now, you can hear it. And if you’re not, Martin or Haymitch can tell you what I say even if the playback isn’t available anymore.”_ He smiles. _“Annie, that day when I kissed you on the beach and then panicked… I already knew I loved you, but I was too much of a coward to say it. Mags pointed out to me how much of an idiot I was. She was always good at that.”_

He falls silent for a bit, working a new knot. Annie zooms in on his hands; it isn’t a knot she’s familiar with, but his fingers fly through it and then still. He looks up again. _“You’re everything to me, Annie. You are the reason I keep going. There’s never been anyone else for me. And even if I make it out of here, there never will be. I love you.”_

Seeing and hearing him over her headset, it’s almost as though it’s just the two of them, that no one else can hear it. “Oh, Finnick,” she whispers. She reaches out a hand to touch her monitor, but then quickly pulls it back, glancing around the control room to see if anyone noticed. Satisfied that no one is looking at her, that she doesn’t need to be embarrassed, she continues, “I love you so much. Please come home.”

The door to the control room opens behind her and Haymitch enters. With a quick glance at Annie, he heads over to Rae. Annie starts to turn back to her screen, but both Haymitch and Rae are looking at her. She pulls one earpiece away from her ear.

“What’s wrong?”

Haymitch tells her, “That whole thing should’ve been cut, maybe included later on the Gamemakers’ special, if Finnick wins. But instead it was broadcast to all of Panem. Everyone just heard Finnick Odair declare his undying love for you.”

“He didn’t mention her last name,” Rae says, but she looks troubled.

“Do you really think he had to?”

Annie shivers, hearing again President Snow telling her she’ll be very popular in the Capitol, once the Games are over. Somehow, letting everyone hear what Finnick has to say to her is as much a message from Snow to her as that knotted rope was a message from her to Finnick. A coldness seeps into her bones and won’t let go.


	31. The Gray in This City is Too Much to Bear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title for this chapter comes from Laura Marling's Alpha Shallows.

**Chapter Thirty-One – The Gray in This City is Too Much to Bear**

Finnick closes his eyes. His fingers go still on rope twisted into dozens of knots in his hands, so like the twisted loops of his thoughts. Even as he hopes that Annie heard him, that she knows he understood her message, he wishes with everything in him that somehow, impossibly, she’s no longer in the Capitol to have heard his words, that she’s back home with his family and that they’re all headed far out to sea to a place where even Snow’s long reach can’t touch them.

“You are such a fool, Odair,” he says aloud, not caring if all Panem hears it. It’s nothing but the truth. The way things are headed in this arena – sixteen already dead and they’re barely into the third day – he’s lucky to have made it this far, luckier if he survives long enough to see Katniss win her way free. And he has even less control over the fates of Annie and his family.

He shifts to a more comfortable position and lays Annie’s rope on the sand in front of him. His gaze catches on the bit of rope around his wrist, the first knot in the long chain that Annie worked for him, its lines inexpert but all the more precious to him because of that.

Annie.

Finnick buries his face in his hands, but Snow’s voice rolls over him, as implacable as the tide. _“I’m sure the Capitol will love her as much as you do.”_ Slithering inside his head, insinuating itself into his consciousness. Inescapable. _“You have my word, Finnick. For as long as you perform for both of you, your Annie may remain snug at home.”_

“Our agreement dies with me,” Finnick whispers to the sand between his feet. The specter of his own mortality, carrying images of Annie’s likely fate once he’s gone, sends icy fingers dancing down his spine. A shudder runs through him. _Stop thinking, Odair. You’re not good at it._ With a sudden tearing restlessness, Finnick surges to his feet. If he sits on that beach for a second longer, he might start screaming.

The violent motion as he rises pulls at the makeshift bandage tied around his thigh, ripping it partially free from the scabbed over wound; it stings as it breaks the seal of dried blood that glued it to his skin. He looks down with distaste at the dirty thing wrapped around his leg. The injury hadn’t seemed that serious, the bleeding stopped hours ago, but the bandage has become truly nasty. Finnick rips the bandage free, balling it up in his hand; he’ll rinse it out later and maybe even wear it as a shirt again, some small protection against the relentless sun that will replace the moon in just a few hours.

New blood doesn’t well from the wound right away, but he feels the tickle of it gathering against the edges of the tear in his skin and muscle. He sighs. _Probably have to re-wrap it soon_ , he thinks, glancing toward the deeper darkness at the edge of the jungle. He’d forgotten to grab up some of Mags’ moss earlier in the day to bandage it, but no force outside that of a Gamemaker can drive him into those trees just then, and it doesn’t matter how far away he is in both time and relative distance from the jabberjays. Maybe Johanna will take pity on him when she wakes, collect some moss and rebandage his leg for him. Finnick laughs softly. She’s more likely to mock him, tell him to stop being a baby and rebandage his own damned leg. Shaking his head at his own cowardice, Finnick looks up again at the sky.

“Babe,” he says with a wry grin, “if we have the money and it’s not needed for anything more important, do you think maybe you could send me a first aid kit? Or even just a needle and thread?” It wouldn’t be the first time he'd stitched his own wound. But the moon continues to shine over the arena with supreme indifference and no silver parachutes rain down from above.

Finnick shrugs and leans down to pick up Annie’s rope, which he quickly coils, throwing it over his head and right shoulder like a sash. He didn’t really expect anything. Hooking his toes under the head of his trident, he flips it upward, catching it before it falls again to the ground. Then, trident in hand and resisting the urge to use it as a walking stick, he takes a turn around their camp, checking on the others as they sleep, Beetee still restlessly, Haymitch’s kids and Jo more soundly.

Satisfied that they’re well, Finnick returns to his spot on the beach, but doesn’t sit. Instead he stands looking out over the water. There’s no tide to speak of, whether by design or because the salt lake is simply too small, but still the water shimmers in the silvery light, moving with the light breeze and the equally light current that Finnick felt circulating beneath the surface every time he went in. He wants nothing more than to walk out into it now and let the salt of it wash away the dirt and the blood, the sweat and the fear. But he can’t do that just yet; he has a responsibility to the others to stay where he is, at least until Johanna wakes for her turn at watch. He doubts anything from the arena itself will attack, since Katniss’ clock theory seems to be true and the section they’re in has finished for the night, but Enobaria and Brutus are still out there, both of them playing the Capitol’s Games.

With Lyme on their side, he’d hoped that at least Enobaria could be convinced to join them, but that hadn’t worked out. Maybe Johanna wasn’t their best choice to approach her, but Lyme, respected by her fellow Careers, hadn’t been able to talk her around, either. Finnick doesn’t know if either of them tried with Brutus. If he gets the chance, Finnick decides he’ll give it one last shot to try to bring at least Enobaria over to their side. Regardless of whether or not he makes it out of this arena alive himself, he doesn’t want any more of his friends to die.

He swipes absently at a tickle on his thigh and his hand comes away bloody. _Maybe I shouldn’t have ripped the bandage off._ He huffs a laugh at himself. Too late now. He shakes out the disgusting undershirt and refolds it, pressing the cleanest spot he can find against the injury to sop up the new blood. At least for the moment, the flow of blood isn’t heavy enough that he can feel the effects of its loss, but in spite of his earlier poke at Peeta about having two good legs, the wound could become a problem if they have to run.

Finnick hears Johanna approach him from behind long before he sees her. And it doesn’t surprise him at all when she lightly smacks the back of his head as she passes. She doesn’t stop until her bare feet are in the water up to her ankles. Her back to him, she partially blocks his view of the Cornucopia in the distance.

“Just making sure you’re awake,” she smirks at him over her shoulder and he rolls his eyes.

“Don’t ever change, Jo.”

“As if I would.” They stand there for a time, both looking out over the shimmering water. Eventually she walks back up the slope and turns around again, standing at his side. She shoulder bumps him and asks, “Anything fun happen while I was asleep?”

Finnick looks up from the water to the sky. The moon is still high overhead; yet another unnatural construct of Plutarch and his friends, it doesn’t seem to have moved at all in the hours since the faces of the day’s dead faded away. _Wouldn’t want the good citizens of the Capitol to miss anything because of poor lighting, would we?_ The moon clearly defines Johanna’s features when he looks back down at her. Focusing on her eyes, turned dark gray in the silvery light, Finnick shakes his head.

“Nothing fun, no.” Johanna frowns, the forced confidence dropping suddenly away, replaced by concern for whatever she picked up in his voice.

“Everything okay?” She searches his face, her gaze falling to the rope slung across his shoulder. He raises a hand to one of Annie’s knots, lifts it in a kind of salute.

“Annie figured out another way to tell me they didn’t hurt her.” Johanna’s eyebrows rise, her eyes glittering. “I showed her how to make this knot the night before Snow’s last summons to the Capitol. No one else even knew about it.” Johanna reaches out a hand, her fingers brushing against his as she touches the knot.

“I’m glad. I know how worried you were.” He snorts.

“Fuck that. I was terrified.” Closing his eyes for a moment, Finnick whispers, “I can’t go through that again.” Johanna closes her hand around his and squeezes; he opens his eyes, finds hers again in the moonlight.

“You won’t have to,” she whispers. “Not if we’re careful.” Finnick says nothing, just looks at her sharply. Facing down toward the ground, she says, “Beetee. The rolls that came just before dinner. They were a message.”

Looking down himself, at the knots resting against his chest, his ribs, Finnick observes, “The arena is just full of messages tonight.”

“Whatever is going to happen, it’ll happen once midnight rolls around again.” Johanna falls silent, crossing her arms beneath her breasts and turning away from Finnick, toward the Cornucopia. Finnick lowers his trident to the sand, lifts the rope over his head and drops it to land beside the weapon as she continues, “We just might pull this off, Finnick. All we have to do is stay alive another… twenty-two hours? Piece of cake.” Even whispering as she is, her bitterness comes through loud and clear on that last.

“So there’s a plan?”

“The kids interrupted before he could tell me anything else, but yeah, there’s a plan.” She shifts, facing toward where Peeta and Katniss sleep in a tangle of limbs. “I just hope those two’ll give him a chance to tell us what it is.” Her lips barely move.

“About that…” Finnick feels her eyes on him. “I told Peeta we’re trying to keep him and Katniss alive.” He meets Johanna’s gaze; he can’t read her expression.

“Do you really think that was a good idea?” Her expression is carefully neutral and he grins, knowing from that very neutrality how torn she is between thanking him and calling him a dumbass.

“Yeah, Jo, I do. And so did Mags.” Making a show of yawning, he stretches his arms over his head and cracks his back; the number of audible pops makes her wince. “One of the last things she said to me was that I should tell him everything.”

“And did you?”

“No, not everything.” He pulls the sticky pad of his off his leg and shakes it out again as he takes a step toward the water. “But hopefully enough that he can help us.”

Frowning at him, Johanna asks, “Where are you going?”

“For a swim.” Her eyes widen.

“ _Anything_ could be in that water,” she protests. “I know you, fish boy. You won’t stay close to shore.” He laughs.

“It’s fine, Jo. If there were any mutts in the water, we would have noticed by now.”

“You don’t know that.” He shrugs and walks past her, wading in, his blood-soaked shirt held firmly so he doesn’t lose it while he rinses it out.

“Maybe I don’t care.”

“Damn it, Finnick!” There is real anger in her voice, but it only makes him laugh harder.

“I’ll be careful, Jo,” he finally concedes, calling out toward her silhouette on the shore just before he dives under.

xXx

_“—needle and thread?”_

“Damn it! We even talked about that!” Annie realizes she said the words aloud when she notices Watt staring at her. Feeling her cheeks grow hot, she shrugs and turns her back toward him, but as she does, from the corner of her eye she sees him smirking and shaking his head. Annie punches the button to call the Fulfillment Center somewhat harder than necessary.

 _“Yes, District Four?”_ It sounds like the same man Martin spoke to before he left.

Her readout of available funds shows a figure quite a bit lower than it was a few hours ago. “How much will it cost to send Finnick a first aid kit?” she asks and breathes a sigh of relief when the total quoted is less than she expected, well within the range of what they have to work with. She makes a mental note to ask Martin to go over sponsorship calls with her when he starts his shift. Annie doesn’t like that there’s so little money available. It’s making her nervous, and it doesn’t help that Haymitch is sure someone tampered with both the District 4 and District 12 coffers. She never heard if someone also tampered with Districts 3 or 7.

 _“Do you want me to send the kit, Miss Cresta?”_ She’d almost forgotten the line was still open.

“Yes, please. Send it.”

The balance ticks down as the man tells her, _“It should drop in about thirty minutes.”_ He pauses and then adds, _“I’ll let you know if there are any delays, Miss Cresta, and I apologize for not doing that with the rope. Holds for review of tribute gifts are unusual.”_

Her half recognition of his voice confirmed by his offer, Annie thanks him and settles back in her chair, staring at her monitor. Absently, she starts to run her fingers through her hair, but stops when she knocks her headset askew; she resets it, but whatever she did when she knocked it out of place, it refuses to sit comfortably. She reaches for her coffee, only remembering that it went cold long since when her fingers close around the cool surface of the cup. Making a face at the offending beverage, she pulls her headset off and stands.

Hooking the headset on the back of her chair, Annie glances across the control room toward Haymitch, his hands locked behind his head, bare feet resting on his console. His eyes are closed and his face relaxed, he appears to be asleep, but when she walks over to him, nearly tripping over one of his shoes, he opens one eye.

“Everything okay, sweetheart?”

“I’m going downstairs for some coffee,” she tells him as she kicks his wayward shoe toward its fellow beneath the console. “Do you want some?”

Watching her with that one eye, he grins at her. “You’re gonna spoil me, little girl.”

Amused, Annie asks, “Is that a yes?”

“Yep.” He closes his eye again, not bothering to add anything else. Annie smiles as she turns and heads for the door.

There is no one in the victors’ lounge, but the big television is still on, still tuned to the channel that shows the Hunger Games’ live feed twenty-four hours a day, although at the moment it shows one of the final eight family interviews instead of the arena. The interviews originally aired earlier that evening in a two-hour broadcast, but that was while Annie was asleep. She would have liked to see the interview for District 4, if only to feel that brief connection to whoever in Finnick’s family chose to talk to the interviewer, a tiny reminder of home. If they’re repeating the interviews, she may get the chance.

Annie steps off the stairs watching a woman who looks entirely out of place in a bright fuchsia suit, seated on a comfortable-looking if threadbare gray-blue couch; her makeup reminds Annie of a well-fed flamingo. The woman leans toward a thin, dark-skinned girl who looks to Annie like she’s in her mid-teens. Wearing a beige tunic and skirt, she sits stiffly on a high-backed wood chair. The contrast between the two is stark. A yellow and gold splash at the bottom the screen labels the soberly dressed young woman as Chaff’s daughter.

 _“It must be such an honor for you that your father was chosen a second time.”_ Annie tunes out the rest of what the human flamingo has to say. _Honor?_ she thinks, brushing at her hair and pulling it back from her face before letting it fall again down her back. _That’s not the word I would’ve used. I bet that girl wouldn’t have, either._ As she passes by it, the image on the TV screen splits between the interview with Chaff’s daughter and a view of Chaff awkwardly climbing a tree. Once he’s high enough, he lashes himself loosely in place with vines, facing a clearing in which Brutus and Enobaria have set up camp.

Johanna’s voice replaces that of the reporter as Annie reaches the countertop housing the coffee maker and supplies, the only place in the lounge with no view of the TV. _“Just making sure you’re awake.”_ Johanna must have joined Finnick on watch, but it’s almost as if she’s speaking to Annie. She looks around the little niche and spots a set of speakers recessed into the ceiling. _That explains why it’s so clear._ Cut off from the rest of the large room, it has separate speakers so the mentors won’t miss anything while getting their caffeine fix.

 _“Don’t ever change, Jo,”_ Finnick tells Johanna and Annie shivers. She can almost feel the tickle of his breath on her skin; the sudden need for him, his heat, his touch, his presence, is so strong that she grips the edge of the table to keep from losing her balance. Annie closes her eyes and holds her breath until the wave of longing passes.

In control of herself once more, she dumps the remains of her coffee into the sink, rinses her cup and refills it, and then pours a second cup for Haymitch. When she walks back through the lounge, two steaming cups of coffee in hand, the view on the TV changes again and suddenly she’s looking at a close up of Finnick, his green eyes catching the moonlight, twin spots of bright color in an otherwise silvered scene. Annie stops abruptly in front of the television. A loose hank of hair drops in front of her eyes. She shakes her head to try to move it, but it doesn’t help.

The camera pulls back to show Johanna standing beside Finnick on the beach, very near the water, the two of them looking out toward the Cornucopia. Finnick shifts, facing toward the ground, and Annie thinks he whispers something to Johanna, but she can’t make out much more than the slight hiss of sibilants, no actual words. It could as easily be the sound of a light breeze rustling through the leaves of the trees a little farther up the beach from where they stand. While Annie watches Finnick and Johanna, the door to her left opens and someone enters the victors’ lounge.

Thinking nothing of it, assuming it’s another victor coming in for a shift change, Annie frowns at the bit of hair still partially obscuring her view. She blows at it, which helps for half a second until it falls again and she looks around for a place to set down the coffee so she can braid her hair back and out of her way.

“Ah, Miss Cresta. You look much more relaxed than last we met.” Annie’s eyes widen and she turns toward the two men standing just inside the door: President Snow and his assistant. Even as her mind identifies them, Snow walks toward her. When he’s near enough, preceded by the sharp scent of blood-tinged roses, he lifts a hand and brushes that stray bit of hair behind her ear in a surprisingly gentle gesture. Annie steps hastily back, the coffee in both hands sloshing wildly with the movement. The coffee in her left hand spills over the rim, splashing her hand and wrist, some of it catching her thigh as well. She ignores the pain of the hot coffee on bare skin, far more concerned about the danger Snow presents.

“I didn’t mean to startle you, my dear.” Snow pulls a handkerchief from an inner pocket of his suit coat, drawing Annie’s gaze to the ever-present white rosebud in his lapel. He moves toward her again, clearly intending to dab at the coffee on her wrist. A quick glance down and she sees that her skin is scalded red, the rope bracelet and a long streak on her jeans stained.

A sharp “Don’t” escapes her before she can cut it off as she backs away from him again. Snow stops, one eyebrow rising as he looks at her.

“I take it Martin is on duty in the control room?” he asks mildly, tucking his handkerchief back into his pocket and nodding at the pair of cups in Annie’s hands. She shakes her head in denial.

“No, he’s…” _with a client_. She stops herself from finishing the sentence aloud, nearly choking on the words.

Snow’s gaze holds Annie’s. “I suppose it’s of no consequence. I’m sure you or one of the others will relay to him what I have to say.” He gestures toward the stairs. “After you, Annie.”

Hesitating briefly, Annie starts up the stairs to the control room, stumbling on the first step. Snow steadies her with a hand on her elbow and she can’t stop either the sharp intake of breath or the bone-deep shudder that runs through her. She nearly drops one of the coffees, has a mental flash of throwing it in the president’s face, but in the end she merely tightens her grip and moves more carefully up the stairs. She can feel Snow and his assistant watching her the entire way up.

 _Why is he here?_ she asks herself as she crosses the landing to the control room door. _It’s two o’clock in the morning!_ She presses down on the door handle with her elbow, pushes the door inward. _I feel like I should warn the others._ But there’s nothing she can do but ride it out.

Stepping into the room, Annie turns immediately toward the District 12 station. “Haymitch.” Something in her voice alerts him an instant before President Snow follows her into the control room. Haymitch abruptly stands and Annie hurries to his side. Around the room, the others stand, too, as they become aware of Snow’s presence. His assistant fades into the background, his back to the once again closed door.

Snow continues into the room, stops in the center and turns around in a clockwise direction, pausing to look at each victor in turn. He lingers longest on Haymitch, although that may simply be because Annie is standing with him. _Two for the price of one_ , she thinks, feeling panicky, slightly hysterical laughter beginning to well up inside her. The woman on duty for 11 joins her and Haymitch, a warm, steady presence at Annie’s back.

“That man is such a snake,” she whispers in Annie’s ear and Annie feels the laughter bubble up to the surface, fighting for release. She bites her lip until the pain makes her stop. To distract herself, Annie sets the coffees down on Haymitch’s console before she ends up crushing them.

“What’s the occasion, Mr. President?” Haymitch asks. Snow doesn’t answer him. Instead, he stares at Haymitch for a moment longer, then makes a slow circuit of the room, noting the darkened monitors of those tributes no longer in the Games, particularly District 1, pausing at Annie’s unattended station to watch her monitor. Annie glances over her shoulder at Haymitch’s screen. In the arena, Johanna is standing on the beach facing toward the Cornucopia, watching Finnick walk away from her and into the water. Johanna’s lips are moving, Finnick turns around to listen to her, still walking backward into the water, and Annie wishes she hadn’t left her headset at her station.

Snow comes to a stop again in front of Haymitch. Annie is surprised to see that Haymitch is a couple of inches taller than the president. Snow glances at Annie and 11 – Annie adds it to her mental list to find out her name – but then his attention settles on Haymitch. Snow’s assistant still stands by the door, looking to Annie like he wants to be anyplace else. As she watches, the man leans back against the door and closes his eyes; the circles under them are so dark they look like bruises.

“What game are you playing, Mr. Abernathy?” At the sound of Snow’s voice, Annie drags her gaze away from the president’s tired assistant.

“Excuse me?” Snow’s expression doesn’t change, but a muscle at the corner of his right eye begins to jump rapidly. Annie can’t help but stare at it and it comes to her that President Snow is angry. And, too, there is something else in his eyes, a shadow of emotion that strikes her as fear. He blinks slowly. Once. Twice. The shadow is gone and so is the muscle spasm.

Stepping closer to Haymitch, Snow asks, “How did you and your friends manage to change the terms of the Quell?”

Haymitch stiffens beside Annie; 11 draws in a harsh breath behind her. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I don’t believe you, Mr. Abernathy.” Snow smiles at Haymitch; it doesn’t reach his eyes. Annie shivers and 11 lays a hand between Annie’s shoulders, silent support.

“You honestly think _any_ of us wanted to go back into the arena? You’ve lost your damned mind.” The tic at the corner of Snow’s eye starts again. “Mr. President.” The man’s gaze shifts from Haymitch to 11.

“Perhaps you can explain to me, Lena, why your Chaff has been persistently leading Brutus and Enobaria away from the others for the past—” he glances at his watch “—eleven hours?” Chaff’s mentor says nothing, but Annie can feel her begin to tremble against her back.

Before the President can say anything else, his assistant abruptly straightens, no longer looking exhausted, but rather looking worried instead. Lifting a hand to his right ear, he turns toward Snow. “Mr. President, you’re needed back at the government center. It’s urgent.” Snow’s eyes narrow as he looks from 11 – Lena – to Haymitch, his gaze touching briefly on Annie in passing.

“You going to try to pin whatever that is on me, too, Mr. President?”

Snow’s eyes narrow as he glares venomously at Haymitch before he looks again at Annie, lingering for a moment before he steps back. Turning toward the door and his assistant, his gaze falls on Shale at the District 2 console. Winner of the 73rd Games, Shale is only a couple of years younger than Annie.

Gazing speculatively at Shale, Snow says, “Maximus. Please schedule appointments for physical examinations for Annie and Shale following the Games.” The younger man speaks into a device on his wrist as he holds the door open for the President to step through. Once they’re gone, no one says a word. No one moves.

“Physical examination?” Shale asks, frowning. “Why does the president care about my health?”

Annie runs for the door and the bathroom down the hall, suddenly filled with the need to be violently sick.


	32. Let's Go Down the Waterfall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title for this chapter comes from Radiohead's _I Might Be Wrong_.

**Chapter Thirty-Two – Let’s Go Down the Waterfall**

Sloshing up the beach, Finnick angles toward Johanna; lost in her own thoughts, she doesn’t appear to notice him. No longer directly overhead, the moon hovers above the jungle bordering the next wedge to the right, leaving Johanna backlit. When she doesn’t react to his presence, Finnick shakes the water from his head, wipes it from his arms and chest and flings it at her. She jumps, her hand going to the knife at her belt and he lowers himself to the sand beside her, laughing.

“What the hell?” Her outrage only feeds his amusement, but he loses the smile, rearranging his expression along more sober lines.

“Just making sure you’re awake,” he tells her solemnly.

“Dick,” she accuses.

“You love me.” She rolls her eyes in response and goes back to watching out over the water.

“So you keep telling me.”

Still chuckling, Finnick wrings out his shirt, removing as much water as he can, then shakes it until it resembles an article of clothing again. Before pulling the damp thing over his head, he takes a closer look at the gash in his thigh, glistening red in the still-bright moonlight, at the trickles of watery blood.

“I almost forgot,” Johanna says and hands him a small metal basket, silver parachute attached. “This dropped a couple of minutes after you hit the water. I’m pretty sure it’s for you.” She nods toward his leg as Finnick opens the basket.

Inside is a first aid kit: needle and thread, rubbing alcohol, antiseptic ointment, a pair of wrapped cloth pads, a tiny pair of scissors, medical tape, and a roll of cloth bandaging. Finnick smiles and murmurs, “Thank you, Annie,” as he lays his damp shirt out flat, a barrier between the sand and the contents of the kit.

Threading the needle, Finnick sterilizes both it and the thread with the alcohol and then pours some into his wound. Biting back a yelp, still he can’t help releasing a hiss at the pain. He pinches the edges of the tear in his skin together once the pain subsides a bit.

“Do you want me to do that?” Johanna asks.

“Nah. I’ve done this before.” He had received a similar wound and a similar medical kit during his first Games, although then it was a sword slash, longer and deeper than this knife wound. He’d also stitched up his leg a few years later when he and Annie were out fishing. It was her first foray into deep water following her Games and he’d laid his calf open on a metal ladder when a rung sheared off while he rushed down it to help her with a net.

Knotting one end of the thread, Finnick pushes needle through skin and draws the thread taut, doing his best to ignore the sting and the deeper pain of the wound itself; instead, he concentrates on the odd tug and slide of the thread moving through his skin. The wound isn’t long; four neat stitches close it to his satisfaction. He cuts off the thread, squeezes a line of ointment onto the area, and covers it with a cloth pad, then tapes it in place. Finally, he wraps the bandaging around his leg and over the pad, cutting off the excess for later use and tucking the end underneath. The whole process takes less than five minutes.

“So what had you so deep in thought?” Finnick asks Johanna as he shakes the sand from his shirt and pulls it on, the damp fabric clammy against his skin. _It’ll dry soon enough._ When she doesn’t answer, he shoulder bumps her. “Jo?”

“Just thinking about what comes after,” she mutters. To watching eyes and listening ears, her statement could mean anything, but the words are soft enough that Finnick is pretty sure no one heard but him. When she continues, her voice is yet lower and her lips barely move. “You and Annie are getting married, huh?”

“What’s this about, Jo?” She shoots him a look.

“Don’t worry. I’m not pining over you.”

“Ha! I didn’t think you were.”

“It’s just… If we make it out of here, you have a future.” She shrugs. “I don’t know what I’ll have.”

Finnick studies her for a moment before shifting so that his back is against hers. “What you’ll have is a home to go to in Four whenever you need it.” He looks up at the moon, rather than looking into the dark jungle. “And yeah, we’re getting married, but I think we might have a couple of obstacles to get past before that can happen.” Johanna leans into him, shifting to rest the back of her head on his right shoulder as she looks up at the stars, brighter further away from the moon’s light. None of the constellations are ones he recognizes.

“You’ll get past them,” she tells him. “You’ve both had so much shit thrown at you that it’s about time something goes right.”

He doesn’t believe it, though, and his brief laugh is bitter. “You’d think that. And yet here you and I are, in another fucking arena.” She shrugs.

“It’s not like we ever really left, is it?”

“I suppose you’re right. And if those in control of our lives had their way, Annie would be right here with us.” Thinking about the reason she isn’t, Finnick closes his eyes against the sudden reemergence of the pain of Mags’ loss. A moment later, the weight on his shoulder and the warmth against his back are abruptly gone as Johanna rolls to her feet.

“I have to pee,” she announces and starts toward the trees.

“Jo.” Something in his voice – probably fear – stops her and she turns back toward him. “Not the trees. The water is safer.” He feels foolish saying it, for even thinking it. He knows as well as she does the particular danger this clock wedge holds, and that danger is hours past and yet more hours in the future. But for him, for his peace of mind, Johanna wordlessly turns and wades out into the water.

xXx

Annie sits in her chair, curled up into a tight little ball, her forehead resting on her arms, her arms wrapped around her knees. Her feet are bare, her heels more or less hooked on the front edge of the chair, toes in empty air; if she shifts and isn’t careful about it, one or both of her feet will slide off the chair and she’ll likely hit her head on the edge of her console.

 _“You didn’t tell me there are glowing fish in the water,”_ Johanna accuses. Finnick laughs, sending a shiver up Annie’s spine.

 _“I didn’t think you’d go under and you can’t really see them from the surface.”_ Eyes closed, Annie pretends she’s in the arena with Finnick and Johanna, surrounded by the humid night, a silent third party to their conversation.

“How do you manage to sit like that?” Concentrating equally on the arena and on trying not to think, Annie didn’t hear Shale approach past the noise dampeners of her headset. Startling at the sound of his voice at her shoulder, Annie doesn’t lose her balance, instead tightening up even more, maintaining her somewhat precarious perch.

She opens her eyes but doesn’t bother looking up at him, keeping her face buried in the circle of her arms when she says, “I’m smaller than you. I don’t think you _could_ sit like this.” Shale is tall, probably an inch or so taller than Finnick, and muscular, and the chairs in the control room are not built for anyone’s comfort. He snorts, apparently having no trouble at all hearing her muffled words.

“True enough.” He doesn’t say anything else, but as the seconds tick into a minute and then on toward two, she can feel that he’s still there. Brushing the left ear piece of her headset away with her shoulder, Annie listens, but overall everything is quiet. Someone, possibly Haymitch, snores lightly. To her left Watt taps on a keyboard at his station. A couple of stations to her right, Johanna’s mentor, whichever one it is – Pierce and Acer blend together in Annie’s mind – shifts in his chair.

 _“Why don’t you try to get some sleep, Finnick?”_ Johanna says and Annie doesn’t need to see Finnick’s shrug when he replies.

_“It won’t do me much good. The nightmares will be bad.”_

“Try anyway,” Annie whispers to him even as Johanna tells him, _“Do it anyway, moron. You need sleep. I’ll kick you if it looks like they’re winning.”_

“They?” Annie and Finnick ask in unison and Annie smiles.

_“The nightmares.”_

“What did Snow mean when he told his assistant to set up physicals for me and you?” It takes Annie a moment to process that it’s Shale asking the question, a moment more for that question to sink in. She had forgotten he was there. And still she doesn’t look up from her warm cocoon.

“He’s going to start using us.”

“’Using us?’” The confusion in Shale’s tone finally makes Annie look up and she blinks reflexively at the brightness of the lights.

“Didn’t you have to… to ‘entertain’ anyone on your Victory Tour?” _Grasping hands. Sloppy, wet mouth. Heavy, hairy body. A sickening impact followed by deep gulps of air and the sound of pathetic whimpering. Her own._ Annie shudders and pushes the memory back into the darkness where it belongs.

“You mean like when President Snow introduced me to a couple of his friends?” Shale shrugs. “He told me they sponsored me and said I should be nice to them. So I was.”

“How nice were you?”

He tilts his head when he answers, “I don’t know. We talked.”

“Just talked?”

“Well, yeah.” His gaze slides away from Annie’s. “Okay, one of them got a little handsy with me, but she stopped when I asked her to.”

“And that was okay? With her? With Snow?” Finnick once told her that, with a very few exceptions, the President doesn’t usually sell the victors from District 2, that they’re far more valuable to him in other ways and that he doesn’t want to risk losing their loyalty. Enobaria is the exception, too exotic and too popular for him to not. But Enobaria, like Finnick, is in the arena. Snow needs replacements for them both.

“ _President_ Snow did say that I embarrassed her and asked me to make it up to her.” Shale’s face flushes a darker shade of brown when he shrugs again. Looking past Annie toward the empty District 5 station, he says, “So I did.”

Annie closes her eyes, pushes her face back down into her arms once more, wishing there was some place to hide.

xXx

Finnick feels a strange almost-ache, a stretching of muscles too long unused as a smile spreads unchecked across his face at the sight of Annie walking along the sunlit beach. The breeze from the sea picks up random strands of her rich brown hair, threading it through with gold and copper lights and setting it dancing around her face and shoulders; she reaches up a hand to trap it, pulling it away from her eyes. A gull cries out, gliding in toward her, looking for whatever morsel of food she might have to offer it, but Annie just laughs and shakes her head, denying the demanding bird. The sound drifts to him with the wind and Finnick closes his eyes at the intensity of the emotion that sweeps over him. He can never get enough of that sound.

“She’s a lovely girl, your Annie.” The blood in his veins turns to ice water at the sound of Snow’s voice by his ear, at the feel of his breath and the stench of old blood and decaying roses, but when he turns to confront him, to tell him to leave her alone, to leave _them_ alone – or maybe to snap the bastard’s neck – there’s no one there. Finnick is alone. When he turns back toward Annie, she, too, is gone and the sea, a dark and angry thing, treacherous and deadly, is foaming as it laps at the sand where she stood.

That’s when the screams begin.

“Annie!” Adrenaline pumps through him and, feeling light-headed and sick, Finnick runs toward the sound, but when it comes again, its source hovers out over the water. He whirls around, searching the choppy gray surface, but sees only dark-crested birds wheeling and turning, black wings outstretched. Again Annie screams, the sound filled with pain and despair, but this time it comes from behind him, where sandy beach meets sinister jungle. A shriek of terror sounds simultaneously from above. “Annie!” Finnick feels as though his heart will explode in his chest. He feels his sanity begin to slip.

“Hush, Finnick. It isn’t real.” A soothing hand strokes his forehead, fingers pushing into his hair, trailing down the side of his face. “It’s just a dream.” Johanna. He half opens his eyes, sees her familiar face above his, her expression uncharacteristically tender. Beyond her is a starlit night sky. “Annie is fine,” she tells him, her voice, her presence reassuring, and he trusts her so he has to believe her. He can’t afford not to believe her.

Catching Johanna’s hand, holding it, Finnick closes his eyes again and drifts back into sleep.

xXx

A low moan, her own name murmured in her ear, the sound strained, fearful, wakes Annie from a doze. She jerks upright, blinking away sleep. Her left side is warm from whoever she slept against, her right side chilled, and the contrast makes her shiver.

Even as Johanna’s voice, slightly less loud than Finnick’s, tells her to hush, that it’s just a dream, Haymitch, the source of the warmth on her left side, asks, “You okay, sweetheart?” She blinks again. Between Haymitch and Johanna, she relaxes: neither she nor Finnick is alone. Turning toward the older victor, she thinks that of all the people he refers to as “sweetheart,” the only time it doesn’t sound caustic is with her.

“I think Finnick was having a nightmare.” Over her headset, the arena is quiet, nothing but the soft sound of lapping water, not heavy enough to be actual waves. “Johanna made it stop.” Haymitch snorts.

“Sounds a hell of a lot more interesting than my kids snoring.” He lifts his right arm, pulling it out from behind Annie’s shoulders to massage his biceps. “You put my arm to sleep, kiddo.” Before she can respond to that, a tone from the television draws her attention. On screen, the seal of Panem fades into that of the Quarter Quell fades into that of District 4 and Annie pulls her legs up onto the couch. She leans back into Haymitch’s side again and his arm settles around her shoulders as Finnick’s sister Shandra fills the screen. A blue-green splash across the bottom declares her “Shondra Odair Conmara,” the word “Odair” larger than the other two to emphasize the family connection.

 _As if anyone looking at her could miss it_ , Annie thinks. Huffing a disgusted breath of air, she complains aloud, “They misspelled her name,” but her irritation quickly subsides as the replay of the District 4 interview begins. She pulls the headset off her right ear the better to hear Shandra’s voice, the sound of home.

“Is that Finnick’s sister?” Haymitch asks as the interviewer reaches out to shake Shandra’s hand; Shandra doesn’t let him, nor does her stony expression change as she stares at the man, rather like she might stare at something nasty pulled from a fish net. The interviewer again faces toward the camera, his smile faltering but still wide enough to show off gem-studded teeth.

 _“Ladies and gentlemen, I am Kendrick Parnassus and this is Finnick Odair’s beautiful sister, Shandra Conmara.”_ He faces Shandra once more. _“‘Conmara.’ Is that a common name here in District Four?”_

 _“No, it’s not,”_ Shandra replies but offers no further explanation and Annie smiles.

“She isn’t going to make it easy for him,” she observes, not at all surprised.

“I like her already,” Haymitch says. To their left, the door between the lounge and the main Headquarters Building opens and Lyme steps through, dark blonde hair still wet from a recent shower. It’s just a couple of minutes after six and Annie guesses it must be time for the District 2 shift change. Lyme raises a hand in greeting to the pair on the couch and heads toward the coffee station.

“Would either of you like some coffee?” Haymitch accepts, but Annie declines; she only has a couple of hours until Martin relieves her and she’d like to be able to get some real sleep, if at all possible. She likes coffee in general, and that brewed for the victors is good, but it’s intended to keep them awake.

 _“Finnick is younger by about ten years,”_ Shandra tells Parnassus, who wears a comically shocked expression.

 _“I don’t believe it!”_ he exclaims. _“I would have said you’re his twin.”_ Everything about him, his tone of voice, the look on his face, his hand gestures, even the shiny blue suit he wears, screams of a cheap Caesar Flickerman rip off. The only jarring note – aside from everything – is the gems in his teeth.

“Mr. Flickerman should sue for defamation of character,” Annie says. She hadn’t intended to say it aloud, but Haymitch laughs, so she must have.

“That son of a bitch doesn’t have enough character to defame.” A little surprised, Annie shifts until she can see Haymitch’s expression.

“You don’t like him?”

“I think you’ll find that not many victors do.” Frowning, Annie studies Haymitch’s face for a moment. She knows why Finnick doesn’t like the talk show host, but now she has to wonder if the man uses his privileged position to get to know all of the new victors, and if Haymitch, too, has had first-hand experience with the man. Flickerman has been host to the Games since before the last Quarter Quell.

Disturbed, Annie turns back toward the TV. She’s fairly sure Flickerman never laid a hand on her, that even though they weren’t yet together, Finnick wouldn’t have allowed it. But she was so broken when they pulled her from that caldera, and for so long afterward; there are still too many gaps in her memories.

 _“Yes, yes, you’re quite right, Shandra.”_ Parnassus is back pedaling, his instinctive response to Shandra calling him out about his line of questioning. _“This is indeed about your brother.”_ He clears his throat; Shandra is obviously making him uncomfortable. _“How excited are you that Finnick is among the final eight tributes for this Quarter Quell? Does it feel any different than when he was in this same position during his Games ten years ago?”_

 _“Excited?”_ Shandra visibly bites back whatever she was going to say, and then she takes a deep breath. _“For Finnick to be in the final eight, sixteen people had to die. For him to come home where he belongs, seven more have to die, and chances are, for that to happen, he’ll have to kill at least one of his friends. ‘Excited’ doesn’t describe how I feel, but yes, it does feel different. It feels a hell of a lot worse than last time, because it shouldn’t be happening in the first place.”_

Parnassus seems taken aback by both Shandra’s words and her vehemence; Annie is surprised they didn’t edit her response, the way it walks the fine edge of treason. Parnassus stammers a little before he gets his next question out.

 _“How do you see his chances for a second victory?”_ His voice is at least an octave lower and his Capitol accent less pronounced, as though he slipped out of his Flickerman persona and back to himself.

The camera recedes and in the background, which Annie now sees is the living room of Finnick’s parents’ house, Rhys watches his mother, his grandmother’s arm around his shoulders, both of them motionless in the doorway to the kitchen. A Peacekeeper stands at attention just inside the living room.

Shandra looks upset, maybe even sick, when she finally answers. _“My little brother is strong and he’s smart and he has… a lot to live for. If he can bring himself to murder someone he cares about, then maybe he’ll get that second crown.”_ It’s not lost on Annie that Shandra doesn’t say “win.” Tears well in Shandra’s eyes, so like Finnick’s, and she dashes them angrily away. _“But I don’t know if he could live with himself afterward.”_

The man opens his mouth to ask something else, but Shandra cuts him off. _“No more questions.”_

Zooming in on Shandra’s face, the camera freezes, focuses on Shandra’s glittering sea-green eyes. It holds for a moment, then fades into Finnick and Johanna in the arena. He is asleep, his head in Johanna’s lap as she absently strokes his hair.

Watching them, Annie lets her own tears roll unchecked down her cheeks.

xXx

Finnick wakes to the sun’s heat on his legs and the sound of whispering voices. His head is elevated, the pillow beneath it soft and bony at the same time, and he shifts, opens his eyes to a field of bright blue beyond which is sunlit beach and blue green water. The blue resolves into Johanna’s jumpsuited thigh and beyond her Beetee, sitting with crossed legs, his knees almost close enough to touch Johanna’s. Finnick blinks and Beetee, who had been speaking, falls silent.

“If you’re awake, fish boy, you can get off me. Your head is heavy.” Finnick smiles and snuggles deeper into Johanna’s lap, snaking a hand under her knee.

“It’s all these brains,” he tells her, his voice still rough with sleep. He vaguely remembers phantom nightmares chased away by a surly champion. Said champion snorts and gives him a shove.

“I thought I smelled something. That isn’t brains, Odair,” she tells him as he sits up and stretches, laughing.

“I was able to work some things out,” Beetee says cryptically, abruptly beginning two conversations, one spoken aloud of inane things, a show for the Gamemakers and the people of Panem, the other whispered behind masking hands and ducked heads; the two weave together into the single oddest conversation in Finnick’s life.

Aloud, he and Johanna continue to poke at each other, Beetee occasionally interjecting non-sequiturs, some of which are so odd they make either Finnick or Johanna burst into laughter, to which Beetee never reacts other than to simply watch them until they subside. The older man’s acting ability, something Finnick never before knew existed, is impressive. At one point Beetee launches into a lecture about electricity, setting Johanna to rolling her eyes and Finnick to yawning uncontrollably. But the more circumspect conversation is far more important.

“As Johanna may have told you, Finnick,” Beetee murmurs, looking down while carefully cleaning his glasses, “things are slated to happen at midnight, specifically with the lightning strike.”

“Tonight?”

“What? You want to wait until a couple more of us are dead?” He shoots Johanna a look as aloud she laments a serious lack of opportunities for fun in this arena.

Beetee patiently waits for them to finish. “Before that happens,” he continues, “we’ll need to have everything in place.” He puts his glasses back on and looks over the tops first at Johanna and then at Finnick. “That includes removing our trackers.”

“How the hell are we are supposed to do that?” Johanna asks without looking up from the handful of sand that falls in a stream from her fist to the ground.

“With a knife,” Finnick replies, his tone matter of fact. “It hurts like hell, but it’s not hard.” This time it’s Johanna who shoots a look at Finnick, Beetee right along with her.

“Yes, Finnick,” Beetee says, “cutting them out would certainly work as readily as short-circuiting them.”

 _So that’s what the electricity lesson was about_ , Finnick thinks, _shorting out our trackers._ Aloud he observes, “The only way to fry them would be a jolt of electricity, right?” Beetee nods. “The only source of electricity we have, short of your lightning bolt, is the force field.” Finnick can’t help a glance over at the still-sleeping Peeta, wrapped protectively around Katniss. “Peeta’s already done that, and if his tracker died, we have no way of knowing it.”

Beetee looks thoughtful as he chews on that. “Yes,” he says slowly, drawing the word out, “I suppose physically removing them would perhaps be the more sure option.” He stands, his movements slow and a little jerky. “Can you coordinate that for us all, Finnick?” He straightens and stretches, the pull of the torn muscles in his back making him wince.

Finnick looks down at his own arms, at the almost invisible lump of the new tracker in his right forearm, at the artificially smooth skin of his left; Remake erased the scar he made when he cut out Snow’s permanent tracker. While Beetee faces the trees, watching the jungle and the slowly stirring tributes from 12, Finnick turns toward Johanna and raises one eyebrow.

Catching her gaze and holding it, he asks, “Are you cold, Jo?” Willing her to play along, he puts as much disbelief into the question as he can. His voice sounds unnaturally loud after all the whispering, but he needs to look at her arm, and he doesn’t want to raise any suspicions. He can’t think of anything plausible to get a look at Beetee’s arm, but if he can find Jo’s tracker easily enough, its placement should be pretty similar in the others.

“Maybe a little.” Johanna shrugs, ending in a shiver, and pulls her arms in closer to her torso. “I guess I’m used to it being a billion degrees in here. Anything less is a little chilly.”

With a purely internal sigh of relief, Finnick shifts, takes Johanna’s left hand and pulls her closer until she’s in front of him. His legs to either side of her hips, he pulls her back against his chest and wraps his arms around her, casually and “accidentally” pushing her left sleeve up in the process. Brushing his hand over the soft skin of her inner forearm, the lump of her tracker is right where he expected it to be.

Without looking up or raising his voice, he tells Beetee, “Yeah, I can make sure we get the trackers out.”

“Excellent. I’ll continue to work on the details of the larger plan, then.”

“What exactly is the larger plan?” Johanna asks, her lips barely moving. She leans back into Finnick, resting her head on his collarbone; he settles his chin on the top of her head, her hair tickling a little at his lower lip, both of them working the illusion that they’re ignoring Beetee.

“We’re going to destroy the arena,” the older man whispers just before he turns and walks slowly up the beach toward the jungle.

xXx

Annie is on her way back to the control room with a glass of ice water and a cinnamon roll when she notices a small nook beneath the stairs. It houses two comfortable-looking chairs and three large cases filled with books; the cases form the walls of the alcove. She has no idea how she overlooked it before and can only think that she had other things on her mind. True, the backside of one of the bookcases and a large plant hide it from the rest of the victors’ lounge, but even so…

Trailing her fingers lightly over the spines – thin and thick, leather and cloth and paper, both textured and smooth – Annie pulls out a book about migratory birds and sinks into a comfortable overstuffed chair facing toward the opening into the lounge. In her ears, Finnick sounds incredulous as he asks Johanna if she’s cold. Annie has no view of the TV, which may or may not be showing Finnick and Johanna, as it’s blocked by both bookcase and plant. It doesn’t sound as though anything is wrong, though, so she settles into the chair to read.

A few minutes later, her cinnamon roll consumed long since, she jumps at the sound of Martin’s voice, loud in the enclosed area, and her book drops with a thud to the floor. “Martin! I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I can see that.” Laughing, he crouches to retrieve the book, handing it to Annie. “Look at you. You look as though you’ve been a mentor for years.”

“No I don’t.” She denies it, but it’s true that she’s more comfortable with the reality of being here, if not comfortable with the reasons for it. Laying the book down on the small table beside her chair, Annie stands. Martin’s joking observation brings their low funding to the forefront of her mind. “I want to talk to you about getting more sponsors,” she tells Martin.

Both brows rise in question. “Did something happen?”

“No, not really. I sent Finnick a first aid kit. His leg wouldn’t stop bleeding.” Martin nods. “The price didn’t seem out of line, but our funds are still very low. If he needs almost anything else at all…” She shrugs, the gesture an attempt at downplaying her very real fears. “I just think maybe we should make some calls.”

“No, not calls,” he says as he leads her out into the main room. Sometime while Annie was reading, Silke and Rhodi from District 1 arrived to watch the Games from the relative comfort of the lounge. Greeting them with a wave of her hand, Annie takes off her headset and finger combs her hair, smoothing it down and erasing the tickly feeling the absence of her headset leaves behind.

“Wait here, Annie,” Martin says with a hand on her wrist as she sets foot on the lowest step. “I won’t be long.”

“What are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer her, merely says, “I’ll be right back.” He takes her headset and runs up the steps, leaving Annie to lean against the railing so that she faces the television, where Chaff wades out of the water, a fish threatening to flop from his hand. She can’t imagine how strong his grip must be to keep hold of it with only one.

Martin, true to his word, is only gone for a couple of minutes. Bounding back down the stairs, he takes Annie by the hand and heads toward the door that leads out of the lounge.

“Martin, stop! Where are we going?” Annie feels likes she’s caught up in some kind of whirlpool and the thought of leaving Finnick without even the illusion of help and support causes something close to panic to rise in up her chest and squeeze her heart. “Shouldn’t one of us be in the control room?”

“Haymitch is watching the kids.” Martin opens the door and holds it for Annie to pass through. “Finnick will be fine, Annie.”

“Where are we going?” she repeats.

“First, we’re going to the Training Center to get cleaned up and change clothes.” Stopping at the elevator, Martin pushes the call button. “Once that’s done,” he continues, stepping through the elevator doors and punching the button for the ground floor, “we’re going to a little place that I like to call ‘The Pit.’” He leans back against the elevator wall, facing Annie. “It’s the best place I know to drum up a little financial support for your fiancé.”

xXx

Breakfast consists of more rolls from District 3, their delivery another confirmation that everything has to be in place by midnight. Finnick almost wishes that it could be bread from home, instead, but apparently that would mean another 24 hours in the arena, and Jo was right. Things are moving so quickly that another day could make the difference between failure and success, or at least a chance at success.

There isn’t much else to eat, no fish or tree rats, since neither Finnick nor Katniss felt up to the effort following the jabberjay attack, so their meal doesn’t take long. Beetee finishes first and takes his wire off into the shade of the jungle to fiddle with it, drawing diagrams in the sand only to erase them moments later and redraw new ones. Declaring that she’s going to teach him to swim, Katniss drags Peeta down the beach and into the water.

As Finnick watches them splash, Johanna stretches out beside him and lays her head in his lap. “My turn,” she says, silently daring him to deny her before she closes her eyes and settles in for a nap.

xXx

Wearing a sea-colored skirt that swirls around her knees when she moves and a black silk blouse shot through with iridescent swaths of the same colors, Annie leaves the room she lately shared with Finnick. Her hair is loose down her back, combed smooth save for the curling ends. Martin waits for her in the common room wearing black trousers and a shirt that almost matches her skirt. He had told her when they parted to pick something to play up their District 4 heritage and he clearly did the same.

“Perfect,” he tells her, smiling and holding out his arm for her to link hers with. Shaking her head at him, she accepts his offer.

The Training Center lobby is not crowded when they pass through it for the second time, although there are a few more people than were there earlier. Finnick’s bartender friend Remus, already mixing drinks even at that early hour, spots her and smiles and she waves in return as Martin leads her to the glass doors and the sunny morning outside.

Rather than waiting for a car, Martin keeps walking. She doesn’t ask how far, trusting that, if they’re walking to “The Pit,” it can’t be too distant. He leads her to another building within the Hunger Games complex, maybe five minutes’ walk around the outer edge. The crowds that pack the entire area, prevented from actually entering the grounds by black ropes and Peacekeeper guards, watch the Games on a series of enormous screens that repeat the main feed. As soon as they realize who Martin and Annie are, people start shouting their names, asking after Finnick, asking them for autographs or if they’ll pose for pictures. Martin just keeps going.

“We might stop on the way back, if you’re up for it,” he tells her. “The people in the Pit are good for a lot more money than any ten people out here, but these fans can still help our bottom line.”

“Is it always like this?” Martin shrugs, but doesn’t say anything, just pulls open the door to the new building. “What is this place? Other than the Pit.”

“It’s basically a hotel. Only the Capitol’s richest and most powerful citizens can afford to stay here. The guest rooms are so luxurious it’s almost comical, but the whole ground floor is like nothing more than a big circus tent. You’ll see.” He waves at someone and keeps going, stopping at a set of double doors a few steps in. “Are you ready?”

“I guess so.”

“Just follow my lead. You’ll be fine.” He winks at her and pushes open both doors, entering the enormous room with a dramatic flourish.

All around her is sound and color. Nothing seems real, as though she’s walking through some kind of child’s dream. As if on cue, a little boy runs across her path, waving a miniature trident as an even smaller girl tries to snare him with a gold-colored net. Martin laughs, although the sound has an edge of revulsion that overshadows any amusement.

A man’s voice rings out, “I told you Chaff wouldn’t let himself get caught! Pay up, Cassius!” There is a smattering of applause and Annie looks at Martin.

“They’ll bet on anything,” he tells her, still looking out over the crowd. “Ah, there’s Claudia. C’mon.” He starts to make his way through the throng, but Annie doesn’t follow, so he turns back.

“Isn’t Claudia the woman who…?” She trails off, reluctant to say it.

“The woman I was with last night? Yes, Annie, she is. I’m pretty sure she knows literally everyone in this room and she can help us get sponsorships for Finnick.” Feeling sick, Annie wraps her arms around her torso, unconsciously trying to make herself smaller, less noticeable. Martin touches her arm, lifts her chin with one finger until she has no choice but to meet his eyes. “Without either one of us selling ourselves, Annie. I wouldn’t do that to you.” She shudders, following Martin without further protest.

xXx

Watching the pair from 12 swim, Finnick’s fingers start to itch, anxiety starts to scratch at the back of his brain. Johanna’s head is still a warm weight against his thighs.

“I bet she’s trying to talk him into ditching us,” Johanna says, lifting her head, shifting until she's sitting beside him. The sun beats against his back, its light growing heavier as it rises higher in the deepening pink sky.

“I know. I just hope what I said last night made an impression.” Finnick taps the fingers of his right hand on his knee and then balls that hand into a fist when he realizes that he’s been doing it for a while.

Moving a little closer, Johanna leans against Finnick’s shoulder. “How and when do we remove the trackers?” she asks, rubbing her face against his arm. It’s something he’s been thinking about off and on since Beetee first mentioned it.

“Not until tonight. If we do it too early, the Gamemakers will know something’s up and I don’t think even our friend could hide that.” He doesn't want to risk saying Plutarch’s name out loud, no matter how quiet his voice might be.

“So when did you cut one out?” He glances down at her, but she’s watching Peeta paddle around Katniss where the younger woman stands in waist-deep water.

“A couple of weeks ago. He wouldn’t let me go home.” They both know who he’s talking about. After a moment, Finnick grins. “I promise to do a cleaner job of it on you.”

“Whatever.”

Bumping Johanna’s shoulder, Finnick says, “Keep an eye on them, will you?” Pushing up to his feet, he walks up the slope toward the jungle, mentally bracing himself to step inside it and hoping that he won’t have to go too far in. His fingers are still twitching and while he could simply weave knots into the rope Annie sent, just to give them something to do, he’d rather be more productive than that.

Johanna turns her head, watching him over her shoulder as he walks away. “Where are you going?”

Spinning to walk backwards, he tells her, “To get some vines. I feel naked out here without a net.”

xXx

_“Hey, Finnick, come on in! We figured out how to make you pretty again!”_

Annie stops, her gaze drawn upward to an enormous set of television screens overhead; they form a kind of upside-down pyramid suspended from the high ceiling, each screen showing the Games. Katniss and Peeta splash in the water, laughing as Finnick wades in to join them. Larger than life, she can’t make herself look away as the colorful and noisy Capitol citizens surrounding her fade into the background. All she sees, all she hears is Finnick.

He laughs as Katniss sends a wave of water toward him with her cupped hands. _“Nice try, for an amateur,”_ he quips just before he disappears into the water. Annie knows the look in Finnick’s eyes; one or the other of the tributes from District 12 is going to be unexpectedly submerged in a matter of seconds.

Someone jostles against her, bringing her back to the chaos of the Pit. She blinks and looks around for Martin, sees him and Claudia about twenty feet away, talking to a tall, thin man dressed in black, bald but with a dark blue goatee adorning his chin. There are at least a dozen people between the three and Annie as she starts to make her way through the masses.

They whisper her name as she passes, these strangers who look at her as though she belongs to them. Someone calls to her, a little more forceful than the whisperers, and then someone else steps into her path, blocking her from reaching the bubble of dubious safety that is Martin and Claudia.

“You’re Annie Cresta.” Neither confirming nor denying the man’s statement, Annie tries to get around him, but he moves with her. He doesn’t say anything else, but the way he stares at her causes a wave of panic to rise within her and she wishes she had Finnick’s fishing knife with her, although she doesn’t think she’d use it. She swallows hard and tries to push past him, but he reaches out and closes grasping fingers around her left arm.

Annie’s vision swims, lightning-shot red. She clenches both hands into fists as the incipient panic recedes, replaced by a growing anger and she knows without a doubt that she would use that knife, if she had it. His fingers tighten and she stiffens, and as he reaches for her other arm, almost as though in the midst of some macabre dance, Annie’s hand shoots out and she digs her own fingers into the tendons of his wrist until he has no choice but to release her arm. Breathing hard, descending into a ruddy haze, she doesn’t let up on the pressure; the man starts to sink to his knees, his mouth open in a cry of pain that Annie can’t hear over the roaring in her ears.

Before she can truly hurt him, Martin appears at her side. “There you are, Annie.” His hand closing on her right wrist, he does the same thing to her that she did to her assailant, forcing her hand open. With a gasp, she releases the man and he backs hastily away, his face nearly purple with pain and anger.

“Claudia wants to introduce you to Anatol Scarlock.” He glances pointedly at the man glaring at Annie and she has a feeling that Martin is name dropping. “I’m sure you don’t mind if I steal her away, do you, Lorne?” When Lorne looks as though he’s going to argue, Martin steps in closer until his lips brush against the other man’s ear. “There’s a reason Annie doesn’t often leave our district.” His voice is soft, his tone hard. “You can ask the Mayor of District One all about it. I’m sure his injuries have healed by now.” Shaking and shaken, Annie feels the blood rise beneath her skin, her cheeks flaming.

Taking her hand in his, Martin draws her unresisting through the crowd. “What happened?” The concern threaded through his question is far more familiar than the icy steel when he spoke to Lorne.

Annie swallows down the lump in her throat as she glances toward the screens near the ceiling. “I got distracted.” Martin looks up at Finnick and Katniss and Peeta slathering on the green medicine Haymitch had sent into the arena the day before. He laughs grimly.

“Yeah, I guess you did.”

“It won’t happen again.” She shivers, suddenly cold and more than ready to return to the safe harbor of the victors’ lounge.

“It’s not your fault, Annie,” Martin tells her as he stops in front of Claudia and the blue-bearded man. “None of it. Lorne Adams isn’t anyone you want to have to spend time with.”

“Lorne Adams is a prime example of the rich and useless,” Claudia observes, and although he laughs with the other two, Annie doesn’t miss the shudder that runs through Martin. Claudia turns toward Annie. “This is Anatol Scarlock, Annie. He’s been dying to meet you.”

Laughing, the other man holds out his hand for Annie to shake. “My dear, the look on Lorne’s face when you forced him to let you go was priceless. For the entertainment value of that alone, if your Finnick needs anything at all, you just call me and it’s yours.”

Surprised, Annie looks from Anatol to Martin, who nods. His eyes are on her when he says, “We both appreciate that, Anatol. Thank you so much for your sponsorship.”

xXx

Finnick is completing his new net when Beetee calls for everyone to gather around. With bemused expressions, Katniss and Peeta join the older man, sitting beside him on the beach as Finnick rolls to his feet and bends down to pick up his trident, taking both it and the vine net with him. Johanna is asleep in the shade of the jungle a few yards away, and although Finnick’s first instinct is to let her sleep, when Beetee tells them he wants to go over a plan to kill Enobaria and Brutus, Finnick wakes her.

At the touch of his hand on her shoulder and the sound of his voice, Johanna sits bolt upright, her eyes wide and her hand going automatically to an axe. When she sees Finnick sitting back on his haunches, she relaxes a little, but the look in her eyes is still wary.

“What’s going on?”

“Beetee has a plan he wants to go over.” He keeps his voice neutral.

Brown eyes shining with anticipation and a growing excitement, Johanna holds Finnick’s gaze for a long moment before she says, “Well, I guess we’d better go hear him out, huh?”

Grinning at her, Finnick stands, offering her his hand.

xXx

As if through an echoing tunnel, Annie hears Claudia say, “Your girl is asleep on her feet, Marty,” followed by laughter. Something brushes against her arm. Something else closes around her right biceps and Annie’s eyes fly open.

“Looks like we’d better get you home,” Martin laughs. _Home… I don’t know where that is anymore._ Annie is so very tired, and it’s not just her body. No matter what happens, things will never be the same and there’s no way of knowing if the net change will be better or worse.

A shout rings out above the din that’s little more than a solid wall of sound as she hears Finnick say something about Johanna being rabid. All around her she hears snippets of conversations, bets made, trash talk alongside veneration entwined with speculation regarding Finnick and Johanna and just how long it will be before he kills her or she kills him.

 _I might never see home again_ , she thinks but says nothing aloud, just follows Martin’s lead as he says goodbye to Claudia and swims upstream through the crowd toward the outside doors. The morning sunshine surprises her as they emerge from the artificial light and life of the Pit. It seemed like they were in there forever, people surrounding them who, almost without exception, lost their humanity long ago.

Hurrying past the crowds that once more clamor for their attention, Annie and Martin pass by the Training Center on the way back to the Headquarters Building. Annie stops. It takes Martin a few steps to realize she’s no longer with him, a second or two longer to stop and spin on his heels to face her.

“I need a shower,” she tells him and she can see it in his eyes that he understands how little her sudden need has to do with being physically clean.

xXx

Breaking camp, they carry everything along with them as they head toward the lightning tree; Beetee wants to go over some physical calculations before watching – from a safe distance – exactly what happens during a lightning strike. Initially, Johanna takes the lead followed by Peeta and then Finnick, the two younger men taking turns carrying Beetee, who isn’t up to the challenge of walking uphill as far as they need to go in the oppressive heat.

Katniss brings up the rear, but once they start to draw near to the edges of the arena, Finnick suggests that she take the lead, since she can hear the force field. Part of him would rather she walk in the middle of their group where she’s arguably safer, but he’s sure Katniss would never allow it. Stepping past the others to trade places with Johanna, Katniss leads the group forward, tossing nuts onto the path ahead.

Once at their destination, Beetee walks around and around the tree, lost in thought. Everyone else finds something useful to do: Finnick stands guard. Katniss heads off alone to hunt, promising not to go far. Peeta collects nuts to supplement the tree rats Katniss will inevitably bring back for their lunch. Johanna takes the spile and a couple of bowls to collect water to wash down their midday meal.

Nothing exciting happens and Beetee is too preoccupied with his plans and calculations to discuss any of them, so Finnick settles back against a tree, trident in hand, and waits, keeping an eye out for anything that could become a problem.

Not long after Finnick hears the tidal wave – winding up or winding down, he isn’t sure – Johanna returns with water, sharing some with Finnick and Beetee before heading off to collect more. When Katniss brings back a handful of tree rats, she draws a line in the sand about two feet out from the force field and then sits down to clean and gut her kill; Peeta joins her to roast the meat as well as the nuts he gathered.

Beetee continues to walk circles around the tree, Finnick keeping watch nearby where he has a clear view of everyone. At one point, the older man picks up a piece of bark and tosses it into the force field, then walks over to where it lands, a glowing ember, crouching down to watch it grow cool.

“Well, that explains a lot,” Beetee says, but follows it with nothing more useful. Finnick looks over at the others and catches Johanna rolling her eyes. Katniss and Peeta exchange an amused look as she threads the last of the rat meat onto her makeshift skewer.

xXx

Annie lays out a clean pair of jeans and a pale green sleeveless blouse before heading into the shower. Keeping things on manual control, she turns the heat up and stands under the water, letting it pound into her skin, a needle spray melting away the uneasiness she felt the entire time she was in the Pit with Martin. She does her best to empty her mind, feeling numb when she finally turns off the shower and lets the heated air that follows dry her skin and hair.

Clad only in her underwear, she sits on the edge of the bed and reaches for the blouse, but the slippery fabric slides to the floor near her feet. She snags it, but when she straightens and pulls the blouse over her head, she’s struck by a wave of light-headedness, her vision whiting out at the edges and fading into a narrow tunnel. Annie flops back onto the bed to allow the feeling to pass.

xXx

_Subtle susurrus of skin sliding on skin, velvet and silk… The tang of salt and the soft caress of breath… The music of her voice, low and rough with passion, tangling with his…_

His mouth hungry on hers, Finnick shifts and Annie shifts with him, brings her bent knee closer to their shoulders; he thrusts deeper into her as the tension coils within him and she hums her pleasure, an atonal song of lust, of love.

The scent of roses smothers him as a hand closes on his shoulder, fingers digging into his muscles as Snow pulls Finnick away from her – “It’s no longer your turn, my boy…” – and another man takes Finnick’s place, the next in a long line. Unable to see the end of it, Finnick recognizes more than a few of the faces, men and women both, Capitol citizens all. Bile rises in his throat as his eyes meet Annie’s and she silently begs him to make it stop. Finnick struggles violently to break free from the president’s grip.

“Damn it, Finnick! Wake up!” He wakes with an anguished shout, Johanna’s hand – _Johanna’s, not Snow’s_ – on his shoulder, concern and exasperation at war on her face. “It’s just another nightmare.”

Scrambling to his knees, Finnick barely makes it a few feet before he loses the contents of his stomach onto the sand; the palm of Jo’s hand between his shoulder blades, silent sympathy, surprises him. She doesn’t ask, but he answers her anyway.

“I dreamed Annie and I were making love. Snow pulled me off her, said it wasn’t my turn anymore.” He pushes back against Johanna's hand, forcing her back, moving them both away from the mess before he meets her eyes again. “They were standing in line for her, Jo. I couldn’t see the end of the line.” He doesn’t recognize his voice.

Her face and her whisper are fierce when she says, “That’s not going to happen. We’re not just trying to break out of the arena, bonehead, we’re trying to start a rebellion. Remember?” She surges to her feet and walks away only to come back a moment later with a shell filled with water.

While Finnick rinses his mouth with the tepid water, she leaves him again to talk to Peeta and Katniss. A few minutes later, a still-shaken Finnick supervising, they all go out into the water to gather up one last seafood feast before Beetee’s plan destroys that resource.

xXx

Annie opens her eyes, focusing for a moment on the nightstand beside the bed. Frowning, she pushes herself up to a seated position, blinking sleep from her eyes. The color and angle of the sunlight leaking into the room from the window tells her she's late even without the confirmation of the clock on the dresser. Swinging bare legs to the floor, she reaches for the clean pair of jeans at the end of the bed.

She quickly finishes dressing and slips on a pair of shoes, hurrying from the room, uneasy at having left Finnick and the Games for so long; it was still morning when she came back to shower. Even so she stops and turns around, takes the few steps she needs to reach the bedside table. Pulling open the drawer, she fishes around in it until her knuckles hit something metal. Seconds later, she’s practically running to the elevator, shoving Finnick’s sheathed fishing knife into the right front pocket of her jeans.

xXx

Katniss joins them, the last to wake, and all five watch the parachute as it descends, landing about five yards up the beach from their camp. With a shrug, Finnick goes after it. Inside the basket is another delivery of twenty-four rolls from District 3, but this time there is also a jar of his favorite seafood sauce from home. Tomato-based and spicy, it has a sneaky kick to it. He doesn’t bother warning anyone as they sit down to what might be their last meal in the arena.

He knows it won’t bother Jo, but watching Peeta or Katniss or even Beetee turn red and gasp at the heat of that sauce might be the last bit of fun he’ll ever have.

xXx

It’s evening by the time Annie gets back to the victors’ lounge, and the sun has already set in the arena. The anthem of the Games begins to play as the view on the television splits into three unequal sections: Chaff picking the meat from the bones of a tree rat in the jungle, Brutus and Enobaria tapping a tree for water in another part of the arena, and the largest of them focusing on Finnick and his group as they finish a large meal. Except for the lack of a bonfire, it reminds Annie of one of the Odair family gatherings, everyone relaxing on the beach at the end of a long day. She closes her eyes where she stands, a spike of homesickness threatening to swamp her.

The anthem fades away as the tri-part view resolves again into one and focuses on the full moon above the arena. There are no faces displayed. No one died today.


	33. 'Neath the Gathering Cloud

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title for this chapter comes from Tom McRae's _I Ain't Scared of Lightning._

**Chapter Thirty-Three – ‘Neath the Gathering Cloud**

As the moon rises in the darkening sky, the anthem begins to play. Hunkered down on the sand beside Finnick, Beetee whispers, a staccato briefing in bursts timed to the music. Finnick doesn’t move, gives no indication he hears anything other than that martial tune, and as it fades Beetee rises with a cracking of joints and a low hiss of pain. He trudges away from the scattered group of allies, heading toward the jungle. A few yards away, Katniss divides her attention between Finnick where he still sits on the beach and Beetee’s retreating back.

“So what did Volts have to say?” Johanna asks, drawing Finnick’s attention away from Katniss.

Dropping down to the sand beside Finnick, Johanna folds her legs beneath her while she tears a chunk from the roll she holds in her hand. A light breeze ruffles the short strands of her hair as she offers the bit of bread to him, but Finnick shakes his head and returns to working knots on a length cut from Annie’s rope. He has no need to pay attention to what he’s doing; his fingers know. Even so he watches his hands when he gives Johanna an answer.

“We’re still on for midnight,” Finnick whispers. “We need to remove or disable the trackers before the lightning strike.”

“So that gives us… what? Four hours, give or take?” Johanna pops the piece of bread into her mouth.

Finnick nods and then covers the gesture with a neck pop. As recently as five minutes ago, Beetee was still advocating for a less bloody solution than the one Finnick had earlier mentioned. Finnick isn’t sure whether the man truly thinks shorting the things out is a better option, even after Finnick argued that they would have no way of knowing whether or not they were still transmitting, or if he’s worried about Finnick taking a knife to his arm. Finnick smiles grimly, fingers still dancing along the rope.

“We can’t do it too far in advance of the strike. There’s too much risk of giving ourselves away.” He looks over at Jo. “I have no idea what we’re going to do about Katniss, but hers is the most important one to get rid of.” At least with the others, he won’t have to come up with a cover story. Even Peeta, he can tell outright what’s going on, thanks to their talk the night before, but Katniss…

“We’ll figure something out,” Jo says. Having finished the last of her bread, she stretches her arms over her head and shoots Finnick a sly grin. “I could always hack off her arm.”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” She shrugs and unfolds her legs, wiggling her toes. Johanna is the only one of their group whose jumpsuit is entirely intact – even Beetee’s has a gaping slash in the back – and although she doesn’t have it zipped all the way up, the only skin exposed to the night air is that of her face and neck, her hands and her bare feet.

Focusing on the zipper pull, limned by moonlight, Finnick tells Johanna, “We need to rig the tree with Beetee’s wire. Once that’s done, he wants to run some kind of tests, but he didn’t go into how he plans to do that.” As he speaks, another part of his brain chases down ideas for removing the trackers.

“But he did figure out the rest of the plan…?” Finnick glances over at her, stretched out beside him and leaning backward on her elbows. She stares back at him, dark brows twin arches over eyes made even darker by the moonlight. He shoots her a grin.

“Yeah, Jo, he has things planned right to the end. He wants me to help with the wiring while you take Katniss someplace a little safer than it’ll be near the tree.” Beetee is certain that they can bring down the force field with a decent chance of their own survival, had assured him that sending Katniss away was just a precaution, that no lasting harm will come to him or Peeta or Beetee himself, but even if Finnick were so inclined, he can’t let himself believe that until it’s all over and they’re still alive.

“He wants me to _babysit_?”

Reaching the end of the rope, Finnick pulls it taut, releasing the knot. Ignoring Johanna’s frustration, he continues, “We’ll meet up again at the tallest tree in the ten o’clock wedge sometime after midnight.”

“And then what?” Johanna asks as Finnick begins another, less complicated knot.

“And then we wait.” He can practically feel it when she rolls her eyes. He shrugs. “Beetee didn’t break it down for me.” He might have, had a suspicious Katniss not been watching them while the older man went over his mental notes with Finnick.

Finishing the new knot, rather than ripping it out and beginning again, Finnick flops onto his back next to Jo and rolls his head toward her. His lips barely move when he says, “There has to be something in place to get us out of here. If not, what’s the point in taking down the force field?”

Johanna snorts. “Maybe Heavensbee just wants to see the look on Snow’s face.”

Finnick blinks at his friend once and then again and then the laughter tears free, leaving him breathless.

xXx

Returning from a quick trip to the bathroom, Annie turns the knob on the control room door and pushes forward only to slam hard into the cold, flat surface. The impact of it knocks her headset askew and she takes a step back, staring stupidly at the knob for a moment before trying it again. Definitely locked. Frowning, Annie rights her headset and peers through the small window.

Inside the control room, standing nearer the door than to Haymitch and his District 12 monitors, are a man Annie has never seen before and a woman who looks vaguely familiar. The man, at least, can only be a Capitol citizen, given the presence of dark, iridescent scales in place of skin and hair. He holds a black box in his hands; a green light glows from the top of it, reflecting oddly off the scales of his chin. Annie doesn’t see Haymitch, but the sight of Martin, halfway between their station and the strangers, surprises her. He wasn’t here when she left.

She rattles the knob and when that doesn’t elicit a response from those on the other side of the door, she raps her knuckles against the window glass. Martin, Acer, and the scaled man look at her and then return their attention to the dark-skinned woman, who gestures with her hands as she speaks. No one makes a move to let Annie in.

Pounding on the door, Annie shouts Martin’s name, glaring at him through the glass as Finnick responds to something Johanna says, his voice too low for her to make out the words. Her eyes dart away from Martin toward their monitor, but the screen is too far away for her to see any details. “Martin, please!” she shouts.

He glances toward her, but then walks over to their console and picks up the other headset. A click sounds from her left earpiece followed by Martin’s voice. _“Take a break, Annie. I’ve got things in here.”_

Her gaze flies back to Martin and she tries to catch his eye as she once more rattles the door, but he refuses to meet her gaze. There’s another click and then a brief staticky hiss as Martin returns to the group near Haymitch’s station, slipping around behind the strange woman and putting his back toward Annie and the door. Annie pounds on it once more in frustration and then turns her own back to it, sliding down to sit on the floor. When someone opens it again, she’ll no doubt tumble into the room, but she doesn’t care.

The sight of Shale, sitting at the top of the stairs, leaning against the railing and looking right at her, startles Annie. “Whatever it is, they don’t want us to hear it,” he says. “Lyme told me to take a break.”

“So did Martin,” Annie tells him, and is about to ask him why he’s sitting where he is rather than down in the lounge when she hears Martin’s voice again.

 _“— two hours by hovercraft, Atala?”_ Atala was the woman who briefed the tributes at the start of training the year of Annie’s Games. Distance from the microphone muffles Martin’s words and there’s a strange susurrus, rhythmic, as though he’s swinging his headset back and forth, back and forth. She doesn’t recall if he still had it when he walked away from their station.

Rae says something, her voice so faint Annie can’t understand her, but Martin laughs. _“Chased by the damn Peacekeepers the entire way.”_ Annie’s breath catches in her throat as something clicks inside her brain and she recalls what Finnick said to his father the night before the reaping.

_“My friends believe this Quarter Quell is the spark they need to ignite the districts. I don’t know any of the details, but I do know that when whatever it is happens, all of you need to be well out to sea….”_

Over her headset, Haymitch’s voice, louder and clearer than Martin’s, brings her back. _“You’re Gamemakers, for fuck’s sake. You want to explain to me why tributes inside the arena are the ones taking down that force field?”_ Annie pictures him leaning back in his chair, his head on a level with the headset Martin apparently thought he had turned off. His finger must have slipped on the switch.

Resting her head against the door, her heart pounding in her chest, Annie makes the conscious decision to turn up the volume on her headset, to listen in to what’s obviously a private conversation between co-conspirators. Victors. _Gamemakers._ And who knows who else? _This_ is what Finnick has kept from her over the years, to keep her safe, yes, but maybe he couldn’t trust that she wouldn’t let something of it slip. Again her memory replays that night on the beach….

_“Because the districts of Panem are a hair’s breadth from open rebellion.”_

_“We have a chance to stop the Games. To stop our children from being sent year after year to slaughter.”_

Treason. Within the confines of the control room, Martin, Haymitch, and the others are talking treason. A crime the Capitol punishes by death. Annie lifts her hands to her ears, but as she presses her headset tighter, she only succeeds in blocking out background noise.

In Annie’s left ear, Atala pointedly answers Haymitch. _“Because ever since the last Quarter Quell, control of the arena force fields has been in the hands of the Peacekeepers, not the Gamemakers.”_ In her right ear, Finnick begins to laugh.

xXx

“What the hell, Odair?” Johanna digs her heels into the sand as Finnick surges to his feet and pulls her toward the water.

“We’re going for a swim,” he tells her. “I want to show you something.” It’s the echo of a similar conversation with Katniss and he hopes those watching will hear it, too, and not look any deeper. When Johanna starts to protest again, he turns so that he’s walking backward, splashing into the shallows. “Trust me. You’ll like it.” She closes her mouth and her eyes narrow.

“If I don’t, fish boy…” Her tone menacing, she leaves her threat unvoiced and Finnick mimes a kiss at her before turning again toward the water. When he’s waist-deep, he pulls her off her feet and starts swimming for the nearest land bridge, towing her along behind him. Giving in, Johanna stops fighting him and their pace increases until, almost to their destination, he slows and lets his body relax, releasing her hand.

“Are you going to tell me what this is about?” she asks, treading water a couple of feet out from the bridge.

Finnick shakes his head. “It’s a visual thing.”

“Oh, no. You’re not going to flash me, are you?” She drops her voice a little, makes it teasing and sexy. “Because you could have done that without getting me all wet.”

He rolls his eyes and then grins, playing it up for the cameras. Leering at her, he asks, “How long can you hold your breath?”

“This just keeps getting better and better.”

“Okay. Don’t answer.” Finnick grabs Johanna’s hand again and, taking a deep breath, giving her just enough time to do the same, he dives. They pass through a large school of luminous fish; there are so many of them they all but ignite the water in a bubble of light that, because of the angle, is barely visible from the surface.

During one of his earlier underwater forays, he’d explored the structure of one of the land bridges. Schools of these same fish had lingered near the bones of the bridge and lit the way for him, had followed him for a bit when he abandoned his explorations. Nothing in depth, he’d simply been curious and, too, thought there might be a time a little knowledge about the bridges could be useful.

Now he takes Johanna near one of the pilings and angles up until their heads break the surface into a pocket of air directly beneath the metal bottom of the bridge. The curious fish give off enough light to reveal the cameras in the corners of the structure. It’s just as he remembers: near the tops of the pilings, the cameras’ positioning is such that there’s a visual dead space and Finnick feels hope rise within him. Silently thanking Plutarch, he swims for the camera-free spot, Johanna in tow.

Once there, he anchors himself with his legs to an upright and unties the knife at his waist. “Push up your sleeve,” he tells Jo, nodding toward her left arm. Glancing at the knife, she floats in closer to Finnick and he holds her steady as she pushes her sleeve up past her elbow, no easy task, given the tightness of the suit. Once her sleeve is out of the way, Johanna holds herself steady with her right hand on Finnick’s shoulder.

“This will hurt,” he warns.

“Just do it.”

Placing the tip of the blade against her skin, just below the lump of her tracker, Finnick slices into Johanna’s arm. She hisses, but quickly bites it off, watching as he digs the tip of the knife under the lump and blood begins to flow, mingling with the saltwater clinging to her skin. He makes a frustrated sound low in his throat as the tracker eludes him, blood dripping from her arm into the water, dissipating in swirling tendrils illuminated by the curious and ever-present fish.

“This was a lot easier in that hotel room,” Finnick mutters as he and Johanna bob in the water. He deepens the cut just a little and then takes the knife between his teeth so he can use both hands to remove the tracker – one to stop the thing from retreating farther under her skin and the other to pull it out, being careful not to lose it. Once it’s free, working quickly, he wraps a strip of cloth cut from the bottom of his shirt tightly around Jo’s arm. The strip performs the dual purpose of acting as a bandage and holding the tracker in place on the opposite side from the cut. Pulling her sleeve back down to cover it all, Finnick ties the knife once more at his waist.

“Go,” he tells Johanna. “I’m right behind you.”

“What about yours?”

He shakes his head. “This took too long. I’ll wait until we’re in the trees. It’ll be easier to cover things up then, anyway.”

“Just don’t forget.” Pushing off from the bridge and Finnick, Johanna swims away amidst a radiant cloud of fish. Finnick watches her go, searching for any sign of blood in the water. Satisfied that the bandage is doing its job, he takes a deep breath and follows her.

A few minutes later, Johanna is off talking to Beetee with no visible indication that anything is different, and Finnick stares up at the sky, stretched out on his back on the sand. Making up his own constellations from the unfamiliar stars, he connects them with imaginary silver cords to turn them into outlines of crabs and sharks and mermaids. He doesn’t know how long he plays at that game when someone approaches him. From the faint hiss of confident footsteps in the sand, he’s not surprised when Katniss looms over him, her head blocking out the moon and the tailfin of his mermaid.

She drops into a crouch in front of Finnick, restoring his view of the stars and moon. “We should head out,” she says, tracing a pattern in the sand with one finger. Glancing up at the sky, she continues, “I judge it’s about nine.”

“I suppose we should go then,” he agrees, but they still have a good hour before their current stretch of beach becomes unsafe. Sitting up, Finnick turns toward Katniss but doesn’t stand, reluctant to set foot once more into the jungle, more than happy to delay that inevitability if only for a few minutes, a few seconds more. Just thinking about it sets birds’ voices to shrieking in his head; he can all but feel the wind of their beating wings. _Damn it, Odair. You are the king of compartmentalization. Lock. This. Down._ “I’m not looking forward to leaving the beach,” he observes aloud, his voice somehow steady as he continues to stare at the black line of trees, carefully not saying what he’s really thinking.

Following Finnick’s line of sight, Katniss hears it anyway. “The jabberjays are all asleep, Finnick. It’ll be hours before they come back out to play.”

Huffing out a breath, he glances toward her in time to catch a shiver, in spite of the lingering heat, and knows that she feels that same reluctance. “Too bad we can’t rig Beetee’s wire to fry the little fuckers.” That startles a laugh out of her. Rocking to his knees, Finnick rolls to his feet in one smooth motion, ending with a hand outstretched toward Katniss. “Shall we?” He’s a little surprised when she actually accepts his help.

xXx

“Wait a minute.” Annie opens her eyes at the sound of Shale’s voice, looks over at him where he still sits at the top of the stairs. “Are you eavesdropping?” he asks, dark eyes narrowing, focused on her headset. He pauses for a long beat and then asks, “What are they saying?”

Annie doesn’t give him an answer, just shakes her head and forces herself to lower her hands. Relatively sure that Martin sent her away for her own protection rather than because he doesn’t trust her, she doesn’t feel any less guilty about listening in. If anything, she feels more guilty. She knows she won’t say anything to anyone about what she’s hearing, but Lyme, who had no problem with Annie’s presence at another clandestine meeting only a few days before, sent Shale away. She can’t risk telling him anything, not if Lyme doesn’t already want him to know it.

 _“—be ready.”_ Focused on Shale, Annie missed the first part of what Atala said. Be ready for what?

 _“That doesn’t give us much time,”_ Rae observes.

_“No, and I’m sorry for that. We tried to send a message, but every attempt was blocked. We can only hope that was by coincidence rather than design.”_

_“I don’t believe in coincidence,”_ Haymitch scoffs. Finnick responds to something in the arena, but Annie missed that conversation, too. She doesn’t even know who he’s talking to. Partially visible from where she sits, the television in the lounge below shows Brutus and Enobaria, somewhere in the jungle. No help there.

 _“Thaniel here will come for you when the hovercraft is ready. You’ll go from here to the roof.”_ That’s Atala again.

 _“It was risky enough, the two of you showing up here now. How is he going to explain a second trip?”_ Martin asks.

A laugh and then a startlingly deep voice – Thaniel’s? – replies, _“It’s to be expected that a junior Gamemaker, having left his notepad behind during a tour of the mentors’ control room, would retrieve it when the mistake is discovered.”_

That statement seems to signal the end of their meeting; Annie hears rustling and then a loud burst of static in her left ear. Martin distinctly says _“Shit”_ and then her left earpiece goes silent. Annie yanks off her headset and pushes away from the door just before it opens and Martin’s eyes find hers. She knows she looks as guilty as she feels, but there’s no point in trying to mask her expression, either from him or from those standing behind him in the doorway.

She can’t read Martin’s expression when he demands, “How much of that did you hear?”

xXx

There’s a buzzing in his brain as he surreptitiously draws the knife, still tied at his waist, across his arm just below the tracker. Words and phrases. Notes. Cadences, tones, and rhythms. They combine with the tempo of his pulse. When he feels the blood begin to well from the cut, Finnick releases the knife and pushes at the lump on his arm, forcing the tracker toward the opening in his skin. The knife is far more efficient than a shard of glass; it doesn’t take long before he has the tiny electronic device between his thumb and forefinger. He shoves the bloody thing into the folds of the bandage around his leg. As with Johanna, he’s careful to keep it away from the actual wound.

Moments later, restless fingers against his thigh tap out the beat that’s taken up residence in his brain, the sting of the wound there adding its own rhythm to the music that runs interference against the threatening darkness. But it’s a song that will never see the light of day.

Just like him?

Ten, fifteen minutes trudging upslope toward the lightning tree and he can’t shake the feeling that he’s walking to his end; that brief moment of hope when he removed Johanna’s tracker dissipated the moment they entered the jungle. The air is pregnant with tension as he leads the way toward their endgame and whatever might lie beyond it. The only sound is that of their footsteps as they move through the vines and trees, over the uneven ground, climbing higher and higher toward Beetee’s tree. Faster and faster toward the end of everything.

_I’ll never see Annie again._

Finnick stumbles and he can’t even blame it on a rock or an exposed root. He recovers. Picks up the pace. The buzzing in his head grows louder, taking on the frenetic energy and the strident music of the jabberjays that tried so hard to destroy both him and Katniss from the inside.

“Did you say something, Finnick?” He takes a deep breath. Swallows the thick air along with the cacophony attempting to break free.

“No, Peeta. Sorry. I was just humming a song.” He’s surprised that his voice sounds so normal. Falling apart shouldn’t sound normal. Behind him, Peeta laughs and Finnick stifles the urge to join him, afraid that it will be just a little too close to hysterical.

“No need to apologize.” A moist sliding sound followed by a stifled grunt, a whiff of rotting vegetation, then he feels Peeta come in closer behind him. Finnick stiffens, the unwelcome reaction involuntary. Peeta is no threat. Not to him, at least. Not while he’s still actively protecting Katniss. “Go ahead and hum,” the younger man says, unaware of anything that might be wrong with Finnick. “It’s kind of a nice distraction.”

 _If only you knew._ Finnick lets himself laugh then, and if there’s little of amusement in it, there’s also little of hysteria.

xXx

Ignoring Shale, Martin takes Annie by the arm, forcing her to stand. It’s so unlike the man she’s come to know these past few days that she’s more than a little frightened. Blinking rapidly to clear vision suddenly clouded by tears, Annie has no choice but to follow him as he jogs down the stairs. They only barely precede Atala and her fellow Gamemaker; Annie can feel them watching, though they say nothing. The control room door snicks closed at about the same time she and Martin reach the bottom of the stairs.

Still not speaking, he propels her toward the sleeping room off the lounge, pushing the door open so hard it hits the wall and bounces back, the crash of it loud enough to wake the dead. Catching it with the heel of his hand, he drags Annie with him into the room and switches on the lights before slamming the door shut. There is no one else in the room.

“Martin…” Still fighting tears, a little angry with herself for that, she drops down onto the nearest cot as this man she thought she knew locks the door and then leans back against it, closing his eyes. Annie watches him warily. He doesn’t look angry at all. “Martin?”

Opening his eyes again, Martin looks down at Annie. “Seriously, Annie. How much did you hear?”

“You’re not angry with me? For eavesdropping?”

“Not in the least.” He grins at her. “I was hoping you would.” Relaxing a little, feeling infinitely better at the sight of that grin, Annie pulls her legs up onto the cot, folding them in front of her and resting her elbows on her knees.

“I don’t understand,” she tells him. “Are you saying you meant to leave your headset open to mine?”

“It was easier than trying to convince the others to include you.” Pushing off from the door, Martin walks over to Annie’s cot and sits down beside her. He studies her for a moment, his face as serious as she’s ever seen it. “Annie, in a little while Thaniel Raymond, a junior Gamemaker, will return to the control room. When he does, we’ll follow him from here up to the roof and a waiting hovercraft that will take us to the arena.” His voice never rises above a whisper and his eyes never leave hers.

“To the arena?” Annie barely hears her own voice for the sudden pounding of her heartbeat in her ears. She’s glad she’s sitting, because she’s afraid if she were standing, she’d fall. Terror and hope are at war inside her. That night on the Training Center roof, with Finnick and his friends…

_“Not if the plan is still to get as many of us out alive as possible.”_

There were a couple of other things Finnick had said over the past couple of weeks, things that implied that not all that happened during these Games would be unexpected, that it would not be only the Gamemakers who would manipulate things in this arena. The hope inside her begins to break free from the shadow cast by the terror.


	34. Double Dutch With a Hand Grenade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: major character death, violence, PTSD
> 
> The title comes from _Youth Without Youth_ by Metric.

**Chapter 34 – Double Dutch with a Hand Grenade**

After what feels like forever trudging upslope through the jungle, a forever made up of minutes and seconds that Finnick would rather spend almost anywhere else, they reach a small clearing near the tree that towers above all the rest. The tree marks the starting point of the midnight-to-one section of Plutarch’s clock, the focal point of the entire arena.

The jungle is as eerily quiet as it was that first night. The night Mags died. There are no night birds flying between trees or flitting from branch to branch, no sounds of insects, not here anyway; Gamemaker magic corrals them all in the next wedge over. Finnick wants no part of them, whatever they are. Although being devoured by beetles with pincers or mandibles clicking away would be a far more merciful fate than being stuck with the jabberjays for another hour.

_Shut up, Odair._

“Finnick?” Beetee is watching him over the tops of his glasses. Finnick stares back for a couple of seconds before it occurs to him that the older man had asked him a question.

“Sorry, Beetee. What did you say?”

Beetee gestures with the spool of wire in his hands toward the tree. “I need some help getting things ready, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.” Finnick feels like he did in school, when the teachers used to call on him, interrupting some daydream or other. Woolgathering, Mags always called it. While the others watch, Finnick holds the spool and Beetee unwinds several yards of wire before they trade, Beetee taking the spool to start wrapping wire around the tree while Finnick wraps the yards of loose wire around a piece of fallen branch.

“Where do you want it?” Finnick asks when he’s finished, holding up the wire-wrapped bit of wood.

“Just lay it there on the ground, Finnick,” Beetee says, “and come help me with this.”

Finnick moves around to the other side of the tree and he and Beetee pass the spool of wire counter-clockwise around the trunk, continuing from where the other man had already wrapped a few loops of it about six feet off the ground, working downward.

“When we’re approximately one foot from the jungle floor,” Beetee tells him, “we’ll start working back upward. We need a number of crossover points for this to be effective.” He doesn’t go into detail as to what, exactly, the desired effect will be. Finnick loses track of time as he and Beetee continue wrapping the tree, making sure there are not just dozens but hundreds of crossover points.

As Beetee remarks that two more loops will finish it, somewhere in the distance the tidal wave begins its destructive march.

xXx

Martin opens his mouth to say something, but the sound of breaking glass and shouts from the lounge interrupt him. Something heavy hits the door and Annie jumps. Standing, Martin gestures for her to stay where she is while he goes to the door and presses his ear against it, listening. After a moment, he slowly, quietly unlocks the door, opening it just wide enough to peek through the crack.

“Stand back! Drop it or I’ll shoot!” From her angle, Annie can see that a Peacekeeper is right outside the door, facing away from the sleeping room, into the lounge. Martin mutters something under his breath and slams the door, hastily locking it once more.

“What’s happening?” Annie asks, rising to her feet and taking the couple of steps to reach Martin’s side. A chill washes over her at the sound of what can only be gunfire. She feels herself begin to slip, her concentration and control fraying at the edges.

“Haymitch was right. I don’t think it was a coincidence that Atala couldn’t send us a message.” Martin looks down at Annie then, his expression worried. “Snow knows.”

The sudden pounding of a fist on the door makes them both jump. “Open the door!” The knob rattles, but doesn’t turn. Annie stares at it, her eyes wide, her vision growing fuzzy around the edges, the color slowly leaching out of everything. She tries to fight it, but a roaring builds in the back of her brain; her hands fly up to cover her ears, to block out that sound of rushing water.

“Not now,” she whispers. “Oh, _please_ , not now.” The pounding on the door continues, as do the demands for entry, but all Annie hears is that roaring, raging flood.

“Annie.” Martin’s voice comes out of nowhere and she takes a stumbling step backward, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “I’m going to open the door. As soon as I’m clear, I want you to run. Get out of the lounge. Do whatever you have to do to get up to the roof.”

She closes her eyes, shaking her head in denial. “I can’t do it.” _I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t…_

Rough hands grasp her wrists, dragging her hands away from her ears. Annie gasps and her eyes fly open. She focuses on Martin with everything she has, afraid that her everything isn’t enough.

“Listen to me, Annie. You can do this. Get out of the lounge and get to the roof. I’ll be right behind you.”

Before Annie has a chance to protest, Martin releases her hands and spins toward the door. The man on the other side shouts, “You have ten seconds before I shoot out the lock!” Martin doesn’t bother with those ten seconds. Unlocking it, he yanks the door open and barrels through, a blue-eyed juggernaut forcing the Peacekeeper back and back. Annie has a brief glimpse of the two men struggling for control of a gun and then they’re out of her line of sight. Before she can talk herself out of it, she sprints for the door.

xXx

Johanna takes the spool of wire from Beetee and starts to walk past Finnick, but he reaches out a hand to stop her. Nodding toward Katniss and Peeta, he drops his voice to a low murmur. “Her tracker…” Shaking her head, Johanna shifts the awkward spool and stretches up to kiss Finnick on the cheek.

“I’ve got this, Odair.” He leans into it for a beat, then squashes the persistent feeling that this is their final goodbye.

“Don’t forget to lose your own tracker before the rendezvous,” he tells her. She glances down at the bloody smear on the inside of his right arm before meeting his eyes again.

“You just take care of things here, all right?” She pauses, looking like she wants to say more, but in the end she simply pulls away from him and jogs over to Katniss. She says something to the younger woman, who takes Peeta’s face in her hands and kisses him before she and Johanna head out.

Joining Finnick, Peeta says, “I don’t like this.” Side by side, the two watch Johanna and Katniss disappear into the deeper darkness of the jungle, more or less retracing their steps back down to the beach.

Finnick glances over at Peeta. “I know,” he says. “But they’ll be fine.” The reassurance sounds thin even to Finnick, and Peeta snorts.

“Tell me again why I can’t go with Katniss? Or why it’s not you and Johanna laying the wire?”

Before Finnick can respond, Beetee calls him over to help make adjustments to the lay of the wire around his tree. Peeta waves Finnick on, saying he’ll stand guard. “At least I’m not too slow for that.” He sounds only slightly bitter about Beetee's assessment of his abilities.

It takes a couple of minutes, but once everything is the way Beetee wants it, the older man picks up the bit of wood they’d earlier wrapped in wire. He studies it, following the trailing end of the wire to where it starts around the tree, occasionally glancing up at the night sky and then back to the tree.

After another minute or two, Beetee looks at Finnick, glancing down at Finnick’s arm and then at his face. “Would you give me a leg up?” he asks without preamble; Finnick raises one eyebrow at the request.

“A leg up?”

Nodding, Beetee looks up the trunk of the tree to where it starts to branch a couple of feet above the wire. “Yes. I need a closer perspective and with my injury, I can’t quite reach where I need to be on my own.” Looking at the tree, Finnick can’t imagine just what it is that Beetee needs to be closer to. Surely he isn’t planning on climbing to the top, where the lightning will hit…?

Finnick almost laughs at the mental image of Beetee climbing a tree, but he keeps it tied down and merely shrugs, bending with fingers interlaced so Beetee can step into his hands. The man weighs more than Mags, less than Peeta, and Finnick lifts him with relative ease high enough to grasp the lowest branch and awkwardly pull himself up.

“Don’t go too high, Beetee,” he cautions as the man reaches for another branch with one hand, his wire-wrapped stick tightly grasped in the other. Beetee looks back down at Finnick.

“Take care of Peeta, Finnick. It won’t be long now.” Finnick doesn’t miss the grimace of pain on Beetee’s face at the effort as he hauls himself even higher.

xXx

A burst of gunfire stops Annie in her tracks. Eyes wide, terrified, she spins. Maybe thirty feet away, Martin still struggles with the Peacekeeper for control of the gun. Glancing her way, seeing her hesitation, Martin shouts, “Annie, run!” She does run, then, but toward Martin, not away. He needs help.

Still too far away to do anything useful, she fishes in her pocket for Finnick’s knife, but before she has a chance to pull it out, Martin wrenches the gun from the Peacekeeper’s hands, shoving the man backward. The Peacekeeper falls to the floor, landing on his back, staring upward at Martin as Martin stares down at him. Annie stops and Martin turns toward her, the gun still in his hands.

Everything slows. Martin takes a step toward her. Their eyes meet. He holds out the gun, nodding for her to take it. At the same instant another Peacekeeper, this one between the television and the bottom of the stairs, fires one short burst and then another. One two three. A spray of red. One two three. A line of something hot hits Annie in the face, trails down her neck and shoulder. Eyes wide in surprise, Martin falls.

And falls.

And falls.

The wave that earlier threatened breaks over Annie and she, too, falls.

And falls.

And falls.

xXx

Not knowing where the cameras are – his first Games dragged on long enough that he challenged himself to finding them all – Finnick moves a little way out of the clearing, gathering some of Mags’ gray-green moss as he goes. It’s easier to find cover in the vegetation of the jungle, and he still has a pretty clear view of Beetee, now about twenty feet up the tree and standing on a sturdy branch, giving no sign of moving any higher. Crouching down, he calls Peeta’s name and when the younger man glances toward him, Finnick beckons him closer.

The jungle is very quiet, the wave no longer raging in the distance, which means it’s nearing eleven o’clock and their time is running out. Peeta stops in front of Finnick, who looks up and gestures for Peeta to sit. It takes him a minute to lower himself to the ground, a few more seconds to get his artificial leg settled, and Finnick swallows his impatience.

“Is everything okay?” Peeta asks.

Finnick nods once. Looking down at the knife in his hand and keeping his voice low, he tells Peeta, “We’re getting short on time. I’m going to cut the tracker from your arm.” Glancing up again, he sees Peeta’s eyes widen as his gaze falls on the blade in Finnick’s hand, and then drifts to the scabbed-over cut on Finnick’s arm. “The plan falls apart if they can track us wherever we run.” After another moment’s hesitation, Peeta hunches over so that his body partially obscures it when he extends his left arm toward Finnick.

“Katniss?” he whispers as Finnick draws a line on the skin of Peeta’s forearm. Blood begins to well and Finnick sets the knife down on his thigh so he can use both hands to locate and remove the tracker through the cut he just made.

“Johanna will take care of hers.” Finnick almost has the tracker, but it slips, retreating further under Peeta’s skin, just like Johanna’s earlier. _Damn it._ He picks up the knife again and makes the cut a fraction deeper. Grimacing, Peeta presses his thumb into his arm, next to Finnick’s and just above the lump of the tracker, effectively trapping the device in the newly formed corner. “Thanks,” Finnick tells him, then, “The wire around the tree is what’s important, not the beach.” He hadn’t understood everything Beetee told him, but that much was clear. “The spool is just a distraction, a way to get Katniss away from here to relative safety.” Peeta laughs.

“So the three of us are in the hot spot?” Fishing the slippery tracker from Peeta’s arm, Finnick grins.

“That we are.”

xXx

Snuggling deeper into the warmth and safety of Finnick’s arms, Annie revels in the feel of his breath on her neck, his body wrapped protectively around hers. Everything about it is familiar and right and she never wants it to end.

“Annie, baby?” he murmurs into her hair and she hums tunelessly to let him know that she’s awake. “This isn’t real. You can’t stay here.”

Her heart begins to race and she closes her eyes tightly against the bright sunlight streaming through the bedroom window. The brilliance of it must be what woke her, but now it burns her eyes, leaving behind a circle of darkness, its reverse image, a cancer that grows and grows until it blots out everything around it.

“Annie.” Her name and nothing more.

“No,” she whispers, turning her face into his bare shoulder. “That isn’t true. We can stay here forever.” Just like this. Nothing can touch them here.

“Annie, they need you.”

“No.” No one needs her. She’s nothing. Just poor little Annie Cresta, the mad girl, the one the Games broke beyond repair. Beyond redemption.

“Annie, love, open your eyes.” Finnick’s arms still enfold her, his body still cradles her in the cozy cocoon of their bed, but she can’t stop the shivering that consumes her. The feeling of safety rapidly fades and she scrunches her eyes shut so tightly that lightning flares behind her lids.

“No. I don’t want to,” she says as she tries to burrow further into his arms. “It isn’t true. No one needs me.” She hates the petulant sound of her own voice. Finnick must hate it, too, because he pulls away from her.

“Annie. Open your eyes. They need you. _I need_ you.”

Even as she shakes her head in denial, Annie opens her eyes to a scene straight from her nightmares. There’s blood splashed across the wall to run in rivulets down the smooth surface; the trail of it angles downward, describing a path that leads toward a growing pool on the floor. Her eyes skate past it to focus on the overstuffed leather chair in the reading nook; she does her best to ignore the drips of blood there, too, but it’s somehow harder. Beetee’s voice drifts from the TV, asking Finnick to give him a leg up.

Nothing remains of the dream of waking in Finnick’s arms but dust and ash. Annie takes a step forward, toward the nook beneath the stairs, but stops when her foot encounters something blocking her path, simultaneously solid and yielding. Suddenly, she can’t breathe. She begins to shake. Her gaze drifts along the wall and settles on a Peacekeeper trying to rise from his place on the floor, white uniform splashed and speckled with bright red.

“Don’t look down, Annie,” she whispers. “Don’t look down.”

_No no no no no no…_

The Peacekeeper pushes himself to his knees, picks something up from the floor before he regains his feet. She blinks and there is a machine gun in his hand; he raises it, aiming toward Annie.

_No no no no no no…_

“Get down! Face on the ground!” His visor masks his expression, but not the anger and fear in his voice. He sounds somehow very young.

Annie drops to her knees. Trying her best to keep her gaze glued to the Peacekeeper’s visor, she softly chants “don’t look down” over and over. But of course, she does.

xXx

A bitten off cry followed by a rustling of leaves and something dropping to the ground at the foot of Beetee’s tree. Finnick looks up from Peeta’s arm to see Beetee himself dangling by one hand from a branch, legs scissoring, his feet about ten feet from the ground.

“Shit,” Finnick says, scrambling to his feet. He hands the moss to Peeta. “Can you bandage that yourself? Beetee—”

“I’m fine, Finnick. Better catch him before he hurts himself.”

“A little help here!” Beetee shouts. Finnick runs, stopping a little to the side of Beetee’s feet, in a good position to lessen the impact of the fall without hurting himself in the process. The last time he had to do something like this, it was on his brother’s boat in a high wind.

“Let go of the branch, Beetee.”

“Are you going to catch me?” Beetee sounds dubious of the prospect and Finnick laughs as Peeta joins them.

“Hell, no.” He glances at Peeta and then gestures for the younger man to stand across from him and wait. “We _are_ going to break your fall, though.” In the distance a sharp, irregular clicking begins, growing louder as the insect chorus winds up, more and more of them joining in. Finnick shudders at the sound. “Trust me, Beetee. I’m not going to let you get hurt.”

Beetee mutters something under his breath and then releases his hold on the branch. Finnick moves in and gets his arms around Beetee’s knees, holding on as Beetee cants to the left and Peeta, staying out of Finnick’s way, snags one of Beetee’s arms before his upper half can drop too far. Between the two, they lower Beetee to the ground without any serious damage to any of them.

Eyes wide behind glasses slightly askew, Beetee blinks a couple of times and then laughs. “My thanks to you both.” Straightening his glasses, he looks around the clearing, his gaze stopping in the direction of the insect sounds. “It’s after eleven,” he observes and Finnick nods.

“It is.” He stands and offers Beetee a hand up. “We need to get you ready for the lightning strike.” Anyone listening to them might find the phrasing a bit odd, but they shouldn’t make any connection to plans or conspiracies until it’s too late. Finnick returns to the edge of the clearing and the rest of the moss he’d gathered earlier. Beetee follows.

While Peeta stands watch, Finnick removes Beetee’s tracker, the operation much smoother than either Johanna’s or Peeta’s, but before he has a chance to do more than pull the tracker free, an odd metallic ping rises above the clicking. Finnick sees the glint of moonlight off the wire that leads into the jungle just before that wire goes slack. His eyes meet Beetee’s.

“Oh, no,” Beetee says as the wire on the ground moves, snake-like, of its own volition.

“Someone’s cut the wire,” Peeta announces.

Finnick’s heart stops in his chest. “If they’ve cut the wire…” Brutus and Enobaria are between them and Johanna and Katniss.

“Go,” Beetee tells him. “Katniss is paramount.”

xXx

Martin Perch’s blue eyes stare sightlessly up at Annie, his head resting at an unnatural angle against his shoulder; Peacekeeper bullets nearly separated his head from his body. A shockingly calm portion of Annie’s brain tells her that Martin must have died instantly, just like Erik in the arena. The rest of her retreats gibbering into a corner, trying to hide, still endlessly screeching “No!”

Folding herself over Martin’s still-warm body, Annie claps her hands over her ears in another vain attempt to block out the sounds of more shouts, of screams – the latter her own. Still screaming, she presses her hands desperately against her skull until the chaos before her fades. She falls silent and that calm voice in her head begins to whisper. It sounds like Finnick, but it also sounds like her Gran and like Mags and like Martin and, most surprising of all, it sounds like Annie herself.

“You can get through this, Annie,” the blended voice tells her. “They need you.” Unbidden, the image of armed Peacekeepers running up the stairs to the control room swims before her mind’s eye.

Although the Peacekeeper continues to shout at her, she can’t – won’t – hear what he says. She only hears that calm multi-voice in her head reminding her that she’s not alone, that she’s not helpless, that she’s a victor. A survivor.

“My name is Annie Cresta. I’m twenty-two years old. I am the victor of the 70th Hunger Games.” She lets go of her head and lowers her arms to her sides, stares at Martin for an instant before leaning forward, stretching until she can place a soft kiss on his forehead. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

The Peacekeeper stops shouting and steps closer to Annie. His fingers latch onto her left shoulder, his grip painful. Incapable just then of anything so coherent as thought, Annie surges upward and her hand, which somehow holds Finnick’s fishing knife, no longer in her pocket, flies straight to the man’s throat. The blade slips easily beneath his helmet, glides through that chink in his armor. Hot blood gushes over her hand and arm, sprays her face and neck to mingle with Martin’s before she can push the Peacekeeper away, choking on the knife still in his throat and on his own blood. He falls over Martin’s body and Annie stands there staring uncomprehendingly at the bloody pair at her feet.

She slowly becomes aware of more shouts, of fists pounding on another door. Blinking, Annie swipes at the blood on her face with the back of her hand. “They need your help, Annie,” that strange voice tells her again.

Tearing her gaze away from Martin, Annie stoops and pries the machine gun from the dying Peacekeeper’s hands. Calmly – oh so calmly – she steps over Martin and his companion in death, heading toward the stairs as one of the Peacekeepers above fires a short burst of bullets.

Feeling as though she moves through a sea of mud, still calm in spite of the roaring buzz in her brain, Annie walks past the little nook with its lovely books toward the television where Chaff stalks Brutus and Enobaria through the jungle, past Watt sprawled half across the table and half on the floor. Blood no longer flows from several holes in his chest, but it still drips from the edge of the table, soaking into the carpet. He still grips the neck of a broken bottle of wine in his right hand, more blood on the jagged edge. Red footsteps lead toward the stairs; Annie follows the trail.

A Peacekeeper supports himself against the wall two steps up, a red stain on his uniform near his neck. Holding his helmet in one hand, he drops it as soon as he sees Annie and turns to shout something up the stairs, but although Annie sees his lips moving, she can’t hear him over the flood waters in her mind. She does hear several sharp cracks, though, and feels something hot streak past her head as she lifts the gun in her hands. She’s never shot a gun before, but that doesn’t seem to matter as she curls her finger around the trigger and squeezes.

The gun leaps in her hands; the butt of it slams into her shoulder as a bloom of red spreads over the Peacekeeper’s white uniform. Eyes wide, he slides down the wall, lists to the left until gravity pulls him the rest of the way down and he comes to rest with his head on his helmet as though it were a pillow.

Tearing her gaze away from him, Annie looks up again to the control room door and the pair of Peacekeepers there. One of them faces her and she sees a flash of light, hears that sharp _crackcrackcrack_. Jumping to the side, she raises the gun again, her shoulder aching, and fires off another burst, longer than the last. Both Peacekeepers go down.

Suddenly nerveless fingers spasm and the gun drops, hits an edge, tilts outward and clatters to the floor below. She takes a step forward only to fall to her knees when the path in front of her doesn’t cooperate and it’s only then that she becomes aware she’s halfway up the stairs.

Annie is tired. So very tired. Giving up, she folds in on herself and lets the darkness descend.

xXx

Finnick sprints through the trees in the direction Johanna and Katniss took, leaping over branches and rocks in his path, leaves and vines stinging where he strikes them as he passes. Trident in one hand, knife in the other, he follows as best he can Beetee’s thin wire. He slows when he sees a tangle of it, but doesn’t stop, seeing no other sign of either ally or enemy.

Another hundred feet through the jungle, hoping he’s still on the right path, he shouts their names. “Johanna! Katniss!” If Brutus or Enobaria is around to hear it, he’ll be making himself a target, but it doesn’t matter. It’s far more important to him that he find the women. But there’s no reply, the only sound he hears is himself, crashing through the foliage as the blood roars in his ears.

Skidding to a stop, Finnick drops into a crouch, touches a red splatter reflecting the moonlight in odd-shaped patches: splashes of blood at the edge of a small clearing, sprayed across rocks and low lying leaves. Quickly searching, he sees broken branches, torn leaves, but other than the blood, there is nothing else. He continues on, following a trail made by something – or someone – crashing through the area before him.

A cannon sounds, sharp and shocking, and he stumbles, recovers, continues on. He has to believe it wasn’t Katniss or all is already lost. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if it was Johanna.

A few minutes more and he hears pounding footsteps, voices ahead of him. “Circle back for the others!” Enobaria shouts. “I’ve got Mason!” _Jo’s still alive, then_ , he thinks, and a nearly overwhelming wave of relief floods through him, bringing with it a renewed sense of purpose. He forces himself to pick up the pace and a moment later breaks into another small clearing.

Movement, ahead and to the right. Enobaria. Another flash, farther away, pale skin and blue fabric. Johanna. A crashing through the trees to his left, growing fainter. Probably Brutus. Finnick sprints ahead, toward Enobaria. He doesn’t want to kill her, if he doesn’t have to; he’s lost far too many friends these last three days already.

Dropping his trident, Finnick shouts, “Run, Jo! Get to the rendezvous!” as he launches himself at Enobaria.

xXx

Red. Deep and dark, bright and loud, everything is red. She can’t escape it, the color of wine. Or of blood. There’s so much blood. It’s on her clothes and in her hair, an indelible stain on her skin. A stain on her soul.

“Annie! Are you hurt?” A man’s voice, urgent, shouting at her, demanding she answer an impossible question. Annie has no idea how to answer that any more than she can escape that simple, maddening color. She isn’t injured, if that’s what he’s asking, but hurt? Retreating from everything, sinking down and down, she stares off into space at nothing. Peering deep inside, she searches for a place where the emptiness ends, but she is blank. A barren wasteland swept clean by the sea.

“Rae.” That voice again. “Give me a hand.”

Gentle hands. Warmth. Annie floats, staring up at a cloudless pink sky. Once upon a time, she had a reason for being here. A reason for being. She wishes they’d just leave her. Or they could leave her with Martin. Martin isn’t, anymore. He shouldn’t be alone.

“No way are we leaving you behind, sweetheart.” She must have said it all aloud, but she doesn’t remember. “Martin’s beyond needing anything, but Finnick isn’t, and neither are you.”

Finnick…?

There’s something about Finnick, if only she could concentrate. Annie blinks hard against the harsh light above and the pink sky fades into a white ceiling dotted with bright white lights. She turns her head away, hiding her face in Haymitch’s soft, dark shirt as he carries her down the stairs.

“You with us again, Annie?” Haymitch asks and Annie nods once in response.

“I’m here.” Her voice is weak; his shirt and chest muffle it, so she repeats the words, forcing air and life into them. “I’m here, Haymitch. You can put me down now.” Everything looks and feels wrong, surreal, ragged around the edges as though it all might unravel with the lightest touch or softest sound.

Sparing a glance at Annie, Lyme, standing near the door that leads out of the victors’ lounge, tells Haymitch, “Take the others up to the roof. Use the stairs. They’ve no doubt disabled the elevators by now.”

“I am not going anywhere,” Shale announces from his place near the coffee station. His eyes dart back and forth between Annie and Lyme, finally resting on Annie, his expression a mixture of disgust and outrage. She glances down at herself, at the blood staining her shirt and jeans, the sticky red of it splashed across the tops of her bare feet, but there’s nothing she can do about it. “This is treason,” he continues, addressing Lyme, “and I want no part of it.”

“Do you honestly think they’ll believe that?” Lyme asks him, gesturing around the room at the dead, both Peacekeepers and victors, her tone curious.

“ _I’m_ no traitor,” Shale states, looking as though he wants to spit at Lyme.

“We’d best get moving,” Rae calls to them. Annie glances up the stairs toward her voice as she and Acer step over the white-uniformed body sprawled across their path. “I just spoke to Plutarch. He barely made it out of Gamemaker Headquarters ahead of a squad of Peacekeepers.”

“Is the hovercraft in place?” Haymitch asks. Acer pauses halfway down the stairs to pry the gun from the hands of the second Peacekeeper Annie killed. She can’t drag her eyes away.

“We don’t know,” Rae answers Haymitch. “Atala and Thaniel never made it back to Gamemaker HQ.”

“Shit.”

Stopping in front of Haymitch and Annie, Rae takes the gun from Acer and then he passes behind her, heading toward the reading nook and the rifle Annie dropped, which lies on the floor near Martin’s body. Seeing Martin lying there, Annie closes stinging eyes.

“It’s only a matter of time before they send more here.” Rae slips the gun’s strap over her shoulder. “Especially when these four don’t check in.” Nodding in agreement, Lyme opens the door to the hallway a crack and listens for a couple of seconds before pushing it open all the way. Holding the gun as though it were something she did every day, Lyme steps out into the hall; after a couple more seconds, she motions for the others to follow.

xXx

Enobaria hits him dead center, sending him to the jungle floor and knocking the breath from his lungs. Finnick rolls even as he fights for air, dodges a strike from the knife in her hand, angled to reach beneath his rib cage, right at his heart. He gets his legs up between them as she comes at him again and sends her flying. Landing hard, her head strikes a tree, momentarily stunning her. Finnick doesn’t give her a chance to recover.

Scrambling to his feet, he charges, shoving her back to the ground as she tries to rise, disarming her. He throws the knife away, out of her reach, loses it in the undergrowth. Enobaria thrashes wildly, trying to buck him off, but he doesn’t let go. He can’t afford to, not yet. They roll and still Finnick holds on. A rock tries to lodge itself between his ribs – at least, he hopes it’s a rock – but then they roll again and it’s gone, leaving behind only the bruising pain. He manages to get an arm around Enobaria’s throat, tangle his legs up with hers. She snaps at his chin when his face comes a little too close to hers and he whips his head back to avoid her shark teeth.

“I don’t want to kill you, damn it,” he grits out, tightening his hold around her neck. Their gazes lock. “You are not my enemy.”

Something in his voice or in his eyes reaches her; Enobaria’s entire body goes slack. They stare at each other, chests heaving as they suck in air. A trickle of sweat trails down Finnick’s nose, drips onto Enobaria’s neck, but they both ignore it.

“Let me up,” Enobaria demands.

Finnick raises one eyebrow. “Promise not to kill me?” he asks and she surprises him by smiling.

“You disarmed me, remember?” He glances at her teeth and grins down at her, an arm still across her throat.

“I’m not stupid, Enobaria.” She laughs, loudly and freely.

“I promise not to kill you, Finnick,” she tells him gravely once her laughter fades, dark eyes still dancing with amusement. He studies her face for a moment, then nods and rolls off her, shifting to sit beside her, still wary. He can’t read her expression, but that’s nothing new with Enobaria; she’s always been good at hiding.

Enobaria sits facing Finnick and his eyes widen when she plants his knife forcefully into the ground between them. “You might want this back.” He looks down at the rope tied around his waist and, as he suspected, the knife is no longer there, the loop that held it cut. “Since we’re not enemies.”

Shaking his head, he laughs. “You might as well keep it. It’s yours anyway.”

Glancing at the bandage around his thigh, Enobaria asks, “So what the hell is going on, Finnick?” He moves closer to her, delaying his answer, trying to decide how best to approach her. They may have declared a truce, but it’s still the arena and Enobaria is still a Career tribute; their truce could end as quickly as it began.

“He betrayed us all, Enobaria,” he whispers, looking down toward her knees. Dirt streaks one knee; skin scraped bloody during their recent scuffle shows through a tear in the blue fabric on the other.

“Who?”

He looks at her then, meeting her gaze. “Snow. We aren’t supposed to be here. He changed the terms of the Quell.”

“And you know that how?” She sounds skeptical, but he notes that she doesn’t deny it.

Finnick looks down again and whispers, “Heavensbee,” looks up at her in time to see the surprise that crosses her face before she smoothes her expression once more.

“He’s part of your little conspiracy?” she whispers, her voice as low as his.

“Longer than I’ve been part of it.” He watches her face, the emotions that ghost across her features, there and then gone, and while he watches he becomes aware that the insect clicks are starting to fade, the night to grow more quiet. “It’s almost midnight.”

“What is it you and your friends are hoping to accomplish?” Her voice is still too low for the microphones to pick up.

“There are ei—” He cuts himself off, starts again. “There are seven of us left.” He’d give almost anything to know who died a few minutes earlier. Hopes against hope that it wasn’t Katniss. “The short-term hope is that all seven of us can walk out of this arena not long after midnight.”

“Midnight…” She frowns. “The wire we cut…” Finnick shrugs.

“A red herring. The business end of it is back at the big tree in the lightning sector.”

“Where Brutus is headed. Do you think your plan will work?”

“I don’t know. Beetee is pretty sure of it, though.” Enobaria nods sharply and rolls to her feet. She grasps the handle of the knife and pulls it out of the sandy ground, then offers it hilt-first to Finnick.

“Lyme is one of you, isn’t she?” she asks.

“Yes,” he answers, taking the knife. She nods again.

“Alright then. Let’s go stop Brutus from ruining your plan.” Enobaria helps Finnick to his feet and together they run for the lightning tree.

xXx

The hallway is empty, no sign of Peacekeepers or of the carnage in the victors’ lounge. Carnage for which Annie is responsible. But she can’t think about that right now, there isn’t time. If she lets herself think about the six dead men – Martin! – she’ll lose herself again. Leaving Shale standing in the middle of the room, his arms crossed over his chest, Annie follows the others out of the victors’ lounge, heading toward the service stairs that lead to the roof.

They’re still several yards short when someone shouts for them to stop. Bringing up the rear, Lyme pushes Annie, tells her to run as she turns and heads back the way they came.

“Lyme!” Haymitch shouts. “What the fuck are you doing?” He grabs Annie’s hand.

“Go! I’ve got this. See you at the rendezvous.” There’s a light in Lyme’s brown eyes, almost as though on some level she’s enjoying this. Annie shivers.

“Are you insane?” Haymitch demands.

“I memorized the building layout weeks ago. I’ll hold them off long enough for you to get away and then I’ll disappear. Now get moving!” Lyme lets loose a spray of bullets toward the open elevator doors and a pair of Peacekeepers there, sending them scrambling for cover. She dives into a recessed doorway – a service door? – as someone runs past Annie and Haymitch: Lena of District 11 with one of the stolen Peacekeeper guns.

“Damn fools,” Haymitch mutters, breaking into a run. Since he holds Annie’s wrist in one hand, she has no choice but to run with him. “They’re going to get themselves killed.”

Rae and Acer wait for Annie and Haymitch at a door that opens onto a short, narrow service corridor ending in stairs leading up. All four glance back toward the sound of more gunfire; so far, Lyme and Lena are successful in keeping a group of Peacekeepers at bay at the other end of the hallway. Rae pushes into the short hall and runs up the stairs, Acer falling into line behind her, but Annie stares the other way. Another burst of gunfire. Another white uniform abruptly turns red.

“Annie.” Haymitch says her name and she jumps. “We have to go.” Trying to focus on the hand he holds out to her, trying to stay on track, to simply put one foot in front of the other, Annie takes his hand and follows him up the stairs, but she stops two steps up and pulls free, whirls around, running back down to pull the door shut. There’s no lock and nothing to jam it with, so it won’t slow the Peacekeepers for long, if they get past Lena and Lyme. She runs back up the stairs, following Haymitch.

She’s nearly to the top, close enough to feel the breeze from the open door to the roof caress her face, to smell the night air and the sharp scent of chemicals. The sky beyond the open door is soft velvet, a blue so dark it’s almost black. But then the character of the light in the stairwell changes as the door opens below. Annie hears the whine of massive engines ahead competing with the sound of shouting both ahead and behind.

Annie sprints, tries to take the last half dozen steps two at a time and almost makes it to the roof, but someone grabs her ankle and pulls. She falls, hands outstretched, reaching for Haymitch as bullets fly up the stairs toward that open door, toward Haymitch. With a last burst of strength and the last shred of her will, Annie catches the edge of the door to the roof with her fingers and slams it shut. She won’t let the Peacekeepers have Haymitch and the others. She hears the thud of something heavy hitting the door from the outside, but it doesn’t open again.

“Finnick, I’m sorry,” she says aloud as whoever has hold of her ankle drags her back down the stairs.

xXx

They run. Sometimes Finnick is in the lead, sometimes Enobaria. His lungs ache. His legs ache. Sweat stings, dripping into his eyes, tickles, sliding down his back. The air isn’t so hot as it was earlier in the evening, but it’s every bit as humid.

Finnick sucks in a lungful of air and with it the stench of cooked meat. He coughs and his step falters at the sudden sight of a body sprawled on the jungle floor, faint tendrils of steam rising up from the scorched flesh. Even in the dim light, the abrupt end of his left arm tells Finnick all he needs to know. “Chaff.”

“He’s gone,” Enobaria says, not sounding in the least winded. Finnick swipes at the sweat and the tears in his eyes. There isn’t time for even a brief goodbye to one of his oldest friends. In the distance, he hears Katniss screaming Peeta’s name, over and over. Another cannon fires. They’re down to six. Was it Peeta? Is that why Katniss calls his name so frantically?

Changing course slightly to veer away from the force field, toward Katniss, Finnick and Enobaria crash through the trees toward the sound of Katniss’ voice. They burst into the clearing with the tree – the very place Beetee kept insisting they not be, this close to midnight, a small part of Finnick’s brain reminds him – as Peeta screams for Katniss. Finnick skids to a stop, Enobaria right behind him. He hastily unties the bandage around his thigh, lets it fall to the ground along with the tracker tangled within its folds. In the middle of the clearing, Katniss stands, blood streaked down her face and over the left side of her body. She sets arrow to string and aims past Finnick’s shoulder, straight at Enobaria. Peeta once more screams Katniss’ name.

Finnick shouts “NO!” and pushes Enobaria away as Katniss starts to shoot, but then abruptly changes her stance. In a blur, she drops and scoops something up from the ground. With rapid, jerky motions, she attaches it the shaft of her arrow before setting it once more to her bowstring.

Time slows to a crawl as every hair on Finnick’s body rises. He can feel the electricity in the air, practically taste it crackling along his skin. He can hear Peeta still calling for Katniss, but he can’t see him. There’s no sign of Johanna or of Brutus. He sees Beetee on the ground at the base of the tree. Katniss takes aim at the sky and Finnick dives for Beetee, rolling with him away from the tree as Katniss releases her arrow and lightning razors down from the sky.

_Too late. Too late._

Bright white light, burning, blazing, replaces darkness as the sky explodes, quickly followed by the rest of the world. Every nerve in Finnick’s body is on fire. Too close to the tree. Electricity runs through him, a human conduit. He can’t see. He can’t hear. The air is gone. He can’t move, can’t breathe. And then the electricity abruptly releases its hold on him. He fights with everything he has left, struggling to fill his lungs even as the claw descends, closes around his body, caging him in cold, unyielding metal and pain. The hovercraft grows larger against a backdrop of explosions, green and red and blue and blinding white.

Eyes frozen open, still unable to move, every nerve on fire, Finnick’s awareness falls away.

He wakes in what appears to be a hospital room, rows of beds and an array of machines. Not all are in use. Gingerly moving his head to the left, he sees Katniss in the bed beside his, hooked up to tubes and wires, monitors beeping rhythmically in counterpoint to his own. Heartbeat, respiration, and something else that might be brain activity. She’s alive.

Beetee is in a bed across from them, hooked up to even more machines, sporting even more wires. Hysterical laugher wells at the thought of Beetee encased in wires, but Finnick chokes on it as he realizes that there is no one else. All the other beds are empty. No Johanna or Enobaria or Peeta. Finnick struggles to sit. Fails.

He must have made some sound, or maybe his monitors betrayed him, because a woman in gray hurries to his bed. Looking over her shoulder, she addresses someone at the far end of the double row of beds.

“Mr. Odair has been showing signs of improvement.” She picks up a clipboard hanging from the metal footboard.

“I guess that means I’m not dead,” Finnick rasps out through a throat filled with razor wire, the muscles in his mouth and jaw feeling like they haven’t been used in about a hundred years. He feels as parched now as he ever did in the arena.

“No, Mr. Odair, you are not dead.” She smiles, bright white teeth against rich dark skin. “Although I’m sure you’ve felt better.”

“My friends…” His voice cuts out on him and it’s all he can manage to push out “from the arena.” Rather than answer him, she looks up at the man who joins her.

“Finnick, I’m so pleased you’re still with us.”

It takes a couple of seconds for Finnick to put a name to the voice, to recognize the face, and when he does, his heart picks up its pace, as does the beeping of one of his machines.

“Plutarch?”

“Yes, Finnick, Haymitch and I were just coming to check on you and our Mockingjay.”

“Haymitch…” If Haymitch is here, too, then… “Annie?” His need for Annie, to see her again, hear the sound of her voice, feel the solid reality of her overshadows his need to know what happened to his friends, but it’s as if Heavensbee didn’t hear him.

“It was so very chaotic at the end, we were lucky to get the three of you out. We couldn’t risk picking up Peeta or the others, since we couldn’t be sure their trackers wouldn’t give us away.” Finnick opens his mouth to protest, to tell him that they’d removed all of their trackers.

“Save your voice, Finnick,” Haymitch says, stopping just behind Heavensbee. “We know you got them out of everyone in your group. But Brutus and Enobaria still had theirs, and when Peeta killed Brutus, he got trapped under his body.” He glances at Heavensbee.

“We simply couldn’t separate the Careers from your allies,” Heavensbee continues. “We had no choice but to leave them behind.”

“Jo…?” Finnick can’t breathe again.

“I’m afraid she and the others are in Capitol custody.”

“Annie?” Her name is little more than a whisper. Plutarch frowns and Finnick can see that he isn’t making the connection, that Heavensbee has no idea what Finnick is asking. He turns to Haymitch. “Where’s Annie?”

Haymitch won’t meet Finnick’s eyes and in that instant, Finnick shatters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for sticking with this. When I started, I had NO IDEA it would take more than a year and just a shade under 200,000 words just to tell half of Finnick's and Annie's tale. Later this year, I hope to start posting the sequel, Diving Under, which will take them through Mockingjay and beyond. I hope, too, that you'll consider checking that one out. :)


	35. A Request

Not really a new chapter, but rather an announcement and a request.

I am starting to write notes and work up a general outline for the sequel to Treading Water, which will be called Diving Under, and I hope to start posting within the next couple of months.

To that end, I'd like to know what you guys would like to see in Diving Under. If you have any requests, just shoot me an email at sabaceanbabe@gmail.com and if your request works with the story, I'll work it in. This is kind of a thank you to all of you who stuck with the monster fic that was Treading Water, since it took more than a year to write.

Yours,

Karen


	36. What's to come...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Announcement: The sequel to Treading Water begins today.
> 
> [](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/SabaceanBabe/media/cover-divingunder_zpsdf837cc2.jpg.html)

Hello!

If you’re reading this, then you have either just read the end of Treading Water or you have signed up to follow it. Either way, you might be interested to know that I have just posted the Prologue to the sequel, Diving Under, which will follow Finnick and Annie through the events of Mockingjay and beyond. You can read the prologue [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1263574).

Thank you for reading my fic. I am both humbled and ecstatic that there are so many of you. I appreciate you all more than you can know.

Karen, aka sabaceanbabe


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